


Making My Own Road

by dizzzylu



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Awkward Flirting, Barebacking, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, First Kiss, M/M, Motorcycles, Oral Sex, Stilinski Family Feels, light rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-29 22:50:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18303395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu
Summary: Stiles isn't exactly surprised by Scott's reaction. It is everything he expected, but guessing how it all could go wrong and facing the reality of it are two very different things.





	Making My Own Road

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so! Hi! Haven't posted any Derek/Stiles in a while, but they haven't yet left my heart (probably never will, lbr). This was inspired (a very, _very_ long time ago) by ep 5x09, Lies of Omission. If you recall, that episode ended with a big fight between Scott and Stiles and what really happened with Donovan. Ngl, I was pretty angry with Scott at the time, for believing Theo over his life-long best friend, but what can you do. I know they made up a few eps later (which actually aired six months later), but by the time that happened, this fic had already been started. Over time, it morphed into something other than what I probably originally intended for it to be, but that's what procrastination and time will do to a fic, I suppose.
> 
> You're probably wondering why I bothered to finish it in the first place. Short answer? I don't know. Long answer? I truly have no idea. I hate leaving things unfinished, I guess. And the world could use a little more of Derek Hale on a Harley.

Stiles isn't exactly surprised by Scott's reaction. It is everything he expected, but guessing how it all could go wrong and facing the reality of it are two very different things. For instance, in his imaginings, he never saw himself holding the wrench, his hand tight around the grip. _Forgetting_ about it in his hand and taking a step forward to…to what? Shake Scott? Rattle loose some sense? 

Worse, Stiles never saw Scott taking a step back, the flash of fear in his eyes, a tiny flinch in his shoulders.

The thing is, it feels like this storm has been brewing for awhile now, since the night Stiles stabbed Scott in the gut. It isn't lost on Stiles that the two worst things to happen to their friendship both happened in the same place, a mere dozen feet apart. 

Sure, Scott hasn't mentioned the Nogitsune since they killed it. Has never hinted that any of what happened is at all Stiles' fault, or that Scott's trust has waned even a little bit.

But.

Maybe he should have. Maybe if they talked about it, there wouldn't be this hole in their relationship. Maybe if they talked about it, Stiles wouldn't be clinging to everyone and everything by the skin of his teeth. Maybe if Scott was a little bit mad at Stiles, Stiles could better deal with his anger at himself.

It's too late now, driving around in the rain, shivering despite the temperature. He turns without looking, no a destination in mind, shock and adrenalin keeping him alert enough for traffic, but little beyond that. Not that there's much traffic anyway, considering the weather and how late it is. 

Stiles drives and drives, his mind a whirl, lights and buildings passing in a blur. The only thing he knows for sure is he can't go home. He can't drive forever, either. Sooner or later, the gas will run out or Stiles' adrenalin rush will crash, but there's nowhere _to_ go. 

It's the rain that ends the ride, the rhythm of it almost comforting, enough for Stiles' eyelids to droop. He shakes his head to clear the fog a little, get his bearings, and spots a parking lot up ahead. Someplace for him to close his eyes for a few minutes, figure out a way to _fix_ everything. 

The lot is dark, small, almost abandoned. The building it serves looks…not great. It might have once, but time and stagnation have turned it dank and dusty. The high, arching windows grimy and gross, most of them covered in graffiti, at least on the first level. But the wide bank of windows at the top floor seems familiar. Stiles squints up at them, then behind him, trying to imagine what he'd be looking at if he were that high up. His brain refuses, still too stuck on Scott's hurt face to render anything useful. Stiles tumbles out of the Jeep instead and walks the perimeter of the building, until he gets to the front.

"Of course it's the loft," Stiles says, throwing his arms up. He's never seen the back lot before. Didn't even know there was one, for how little time he actually spends here, some of it not even as himself. Stiles would laugh if he could remember how. 

The door sits open, the sliver of a gap dark and foreboding. Stiles shoves inside anyway, tired of the rain and his wet clothes. Tired of holding back, waiting for the hammer to drop. Tired of _life_. Derek won't be upstairs, but that doesn't mean Stiles can't be. At least he's not throwing a party.

There is nothing different about the loft; everything is exactly where it was the last time Stiles was here, down to the rusty screech as he rolls the door closed. The only thing out of place is a stack of boxes in one corner, and that's not even all that odd, considering Derek moved out. So what if he didn't take some stuff. He's left before without more than the clothes on his back. Besides, Stiles wouldn't blame Derek for wanting to leave some stuff behind. If Stiles decided to leave in the middle of the night, there are some things he wouldn't pack, either.

Shuffling around the loft feels like invading a whole different world. There are no city sounds up here, no street lights to guide his way. No telephone in here to break the silence. It's a relief, to be somewhere where Stiles doesn't have to pretend, to shore up his fear and get the job done. He lets out a breath, then another, relief and regret all rolled into one. The third comes out as a sob, a sound he bites back until he can collapse on the couch, an arm thrown over his eyes to hide his tears.

: : :

It's still gray the next morning, the weak light made weaker by the filthy windows. Stiles startles out of his doze and lands on the floor with a grunt, confused about where he is and why he's still wet. It rushes back in an instant: the rain and Scott, the weight of the wrench in Stiles' hand. The cold, hard echo of slamming the Jeep's door closed. Funny how a sound he's heard every day could mean so much in a single moment.

With his back against the sofa, Stiles draws his knees in, loops his arms around them, and tucks his face in close. The air turns warm and comforting, the light blocked by his shoulders. In this tiny space, with his eyes clenched shut, he can focus on breathing until his chest doesn't hurt. Until the sour taste in his mouth goes away. Until he figures out what he's going to do next.

His stomach has other ideas, which is funny considering Stiles hasn't felt much like eating lately. Too much fear and adrenalin, no time to stop for something so mundane as a healthy meal. He hasn't even been around to keep an eye on his dad's diet, which has probably gone to hell with all of his stress, too. Before Stiles can get to far in berating himself, his stomach churns again, more insistent this time.

It's a long shot, but Stiles scours the loft for food. He wouldn't be surprised if there were a vermin problem in the building, and though Derek isn't the world's best strategist, Stiles is sure Derek wouldn't leave a mess behind for others to clean up. Not if he could help it, anyway.

It doesn't take long for him to work through the space one might call a kitchen, if they were being generous. As he suspected, there is nothing to be found. Not even a spare bottle of water in the fridge. Stiles wants to be annoyed, but doesn't have the energy for it.

Oh a whim, he approaches the boxes; about a dozen in all. They have the moving company's logo on the side, and they're all the same size: small enough to comfortably carry books. He goes through them one by one; magazines in one, a set of Harry Potter books in another. A couple are empty, and another has a variety of mis-matched knick-knacks that Stiles has never seen in his life. 

Curiosity pushes him to look in the last one, his fingers wrestling with the folded flaps. He doesn't know what to expect, unused board games maybe, or coffee-stained mugs. A jumble of silverware or the complete DVD set of Battlestar Galactica. Literally nothing would surprise him at this point.

Except maybe a bag full of cash with a letter on top:

Scott — 

I'm leaving for awhile. Visiting Cora, helping Braeden. I don't know when I'll be back. I'm leaving this money for you in case you need help with…whatever. It won't come in handy in a fight, but maybe for hospital bills? I don't know. If nothing else, use it to get some new parts for Stiles' Jeep, if you're going to continue to use it as your getaway car/traveling ambulance. 

Take care and good luck,  
Derek

Stiles drops to a crouch and drops his head in his hands. "You are such a self-sacrificing _asshole_." He kind of wishes he could wring Derek's neck right now, for all the good it would do. 

Curiosity has his fingers reaching for a pack of bills, all twenties, in neat little stacks. Each pack is worth two thousand dollars, and after a quick scan of the bag, Stiles estimates there are roughly fifty packs. Stiles collapses onto his butt. "So you're a _dumb_ self-sacrificing asshole." With Derek gone, Stiles vents his frustration at the ceiling and the windows, screaming at the top of his lungs for a full three seconds. It doesn't make him feel much better, but the need to throttle somebody has lessened. 

He sits there for awhile, staring at the box, one bundle of bills still in his hand, while he tries to work through what to do next. He has no idea where Malia is, or Kira for that matter. He's not ready for another encounter with Scott yet, and Liam is probably with Scott still. That leaves Lydia, the only person left who would listen and not judge him, probably, but she's busy with Parrish trying to figure out what his deal is. That's far more important than Stiles' break-up with Scott

That leaves home, and more lying to his father. Or more squatting in an abandoned building, with a hundred thousand dollars as his only company. Awesome.

With his mind back on the money, his conscience — what little he has left, anyway — won't let him take the money and use it, but he also can't leave it here in the open, where anybody can find it, or where it will burn to ashes when the wiring in the building inevitably fails. Just then, his stomach gives a loud, gurgling rumble, reminding Stiles of why he was searching through the boxes in the first place. So, for lack of any better options, he scoops up the box and heads for the Jeep. 

Nobody'll notice if one twenty is missing. If anybody asks, he can rationalize a food run as 'Pack Supplies.' It'll be fine.

: : :

It's not fine.

Stiles isn't surprised by the empty driveway or that it doesn't look like his dad's bed was slept in. No, the surprise is in Stiles' room, sitting on his desk: his library pass card, with a note from his dad. 

"We need to talk," Stiles mumbles to himself, crumpling the Post-it with a shaking fist. He watches it miss the garbage can and tumble to the floor, which feels like a too accurate metaphor for his life at the moment. Using the wall for support, Stiles slumps to the floor. He checks his watch before dropping his head to his hands, fingers tugging at his hair for lack of any other way to punish himself. 

It's just after nine and, because things have spiraled so far out of control, Stiles has no idea what kind of shift his dad is working. He could show up in five minutes or five hours. Stiles could call the desk and ask Myra what's up, but then she'd probably tell his dad, who would then rush home, and Stiles isn't ready for that. It's one thing to be a disappointment to Scott, it's entirely different with his dad. Months upon years of disappointment now, culminating into something not even Scott can comprehend or forgive. There's no way Stiles' dad could overlook it, could understand. 

Stiles digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, staving off the prickle of tears. Now is not the time to cry, now is the time for a plan.

Except there is no plan. No lie Stiles can spin. He's finally caught between the biggest rock and the hardest place. He has nowhere to go and no one to go to for help. The truth of it echoes around the hollow space in his chest, squeezing his lungs, making it hard to breathe. His whole body starts to tremble and the tears come freely, sliding down burning cheeks to darken his t-shirt.

With his arms looped around his knees to draw them close, it takes effort for Stiles to fight the panic in his mind, to push past the million disappointed dad scenarios to find his therapist's voice, calm and soothing, urging him to count, to relax, to quit fighting his body. It feels like the only thing he knows how to do anymore is fight; relaxing as foreign to him now as trying to learn Ancient Latin. 

As he works through it, time passes in fits and starts, coming in and out of focus. By paying attention to only one body part at a time, his head running through all the various biology class facts he knows, plus anything he's picked up in his random, late-night research binges, Stiles makes it to the other side, where the sun is brighter and Stiles is drenched in tears, snot, and flop sweat. 

The shower helps further, easing the tension in his neck and shoulders, but the white noise of the water allows Stiles' mind to wander back to the problem. It's frustrating that Stiles can't come up with a scenario that doesn't end in total ostracization. Perhaps even jail time. This is not how his sixteen year old self saw the whole werewolf reveal going. 

The thought brings him back to that day in the forest, splashing through the creek with Scott, his warbly attempt at a wolf's howl. That was the first time they encountered Derek's trademark glare—

"Oh, you dumb fucking ass." Stiles darts forward to turn off the shower and grabs for a towel, his mind racing.

He doesn't need the entire hundred thousand dollars. Just enough to get out of the state. Two or three packs ought to do it. He'll have to buy a new burner phone, but he can take his laptop. His dad's old Army duffel will be big enough for clothes and other essentials. The Playstation will have to stay, which is a loss, but a necessary one; it's not like Stiles will be up for playing in whatever random motels he happens across. Besides, it won't be much fun playing without Scott.

He makes quick work of packing, taking as much clothes as he can fit in his dad's bag, leaving his school backpack free for illicit items from the pantry. Including the box of Thin Mints from the freezer. "It's for your own good, Dad" Stiles mutters to himself.

The last thing he does, after checking the street to make sure the house isn't under surveillance, is scrawl out "I'm sorry" onto a Post-It, sticking it to his library pass and placing it and his cell phone on the desk in his dad's home office. He takes a minute then, breathing in deep the familiar scents of Old Spice and worn leather. This was the room he ran to after his mother died, the one place in the house that didn't carry any trace of her perfume. The only room it didn't hurt to be in.

It hurts now, though, to say good-bye. He's not sentimental by nature, but there's a tug in his chest all the same, tears prickling behind his eyes. He leaves before they can fall. One will lead to two will lead to another panic attack, and that's the very last thing Stiles needs.

Out in the driveway, Stiles tosses his bags and his pillow into the back, eyes on the duffel of money. He tries to estimate the bare minimum he'll need to get where he's going, then remembers he has no idea where he's going. Not yet. He decides five packs will do; if he takes too much, he'll feel guilty. Not enough and he'll be homeless. The extra can be sent back, if necessary. 

Which brings him to the question of what to do with the rest. His dad will most certainly toss Stiles' bedroom, once they realize he's gone, and a bag of money will look suspicious. Giving it to anybody else would mean facing them and explaining everything, something Stiles doesn't have time for, not that he wants to do it anyway.

At a loss, Stiles climbs into the Jeep and heads south, putting most of his focus on keeping his driving sedate so he won't draw attention to himself. This leads him to the richer side of Beacon Hills, with the bigger houses and wrought iron fencing. On a whim, he drives by Lydia's house to see if her car is in the driveway. That it isn't is both a disappointment and a relief.

When nobody answers the door, Stiles makes his way to the back, checking for open windows, anything that he can use to sneak in. He has a vague notion of where her room is, but he has to assume a house this nice will have a security system. He'll have minutes, at best, to get in and out. Spotting a kitchen window open, Stiles jogs back to the Jeep for a pen, then scribbles out _hang onto this_ at the bottom of Derek's note. She'll be mad at him for not talking to her first, but it's not like she'll be able to do anything to him if she can't find him.

Stiles says a silent thank you for all those nights he sneaked his way in through Scott's bedroom window as he darts and up the stairs, two at a time. Lydia's closet is open, and he stashes the bag in there, hoping he didn't crush any of her precious shoes or dresses. Stiles rushes out after that, down the stairs and back through the window. He looses his footing on the way out, scrapes his palms on cement, but doesn't spare time for examination; just because there's no alarm in the house doesn't mean he didn't trigger a silent one. 

Back in the Jeep, his heart races, his breathing turning shallow. The world around him blurs a little, with the lack of oxygen, but he forces himself to put the key in the ignition, push the clutch and shift gears, drive at a sane speed until he's a good ten miles out of Beacon Hills. _Then_ he can pull over and fall apart.

: : :

Stiles pulls over after twelve miles, into a gas station parking lot where he can fill up and finally buy something to eat. He scopes out surveillance cameras and aims his face at them, hoping it doesn't look too obvious that he wants to be seen. A couple bottles of motor oil round out his purchase and he throws it all into the passenger seat, aiming to keep the Donettes from getting crushed, while he drives south for another half an hour. He wanders a bit until he finds a historical marker with a small attached picnic area. There, Stiles forces himself not to devour his breakfast of champions: two packages of powdered sugar Donettes and a jug of Gatorade.

Focusing on rationing out his breakfast helps keep the panic attack at bay, allowing his mind to work through the logistics of what comes next.

The map in front of him is more than a few years old, the creases worn thin from years of use. The pink and yellow highlighter are hard to ignore, jagged little lines reminding him of family road trips going in all directions. He stares at the center, the little dot of Beacon Hills, until his eyes go blurry, until the pink and yellow are no more than faint smudges in the periphery. Only then can he decide which direction to go — north, east, or south.

Each one has its pros and cons; each one, Stiles can come up with a dozen reasons why his dad would know exactly where Stiles is going. Never before has Stiles so regretted being a sheriff's kid.

He chews his donuts slowly and spends the time trying to plan out his endgame. This isn't a road trip for fun. Sure, he can stop and take in the sites if money allows, but he needs a final destination, something to aim for. A big city would be best; they're used to strangers showing up and taking root on a whim, and it's easier to blend in when surrounded by millions of people. It'll be daunting, doing it on his own, but it almost feels like Stiles' childhood has been grooming him for just this moment.

The list of possible cities goes in the margin: Chicago, Denver, New York, Boston, Nashville, Seattle, Dallas, St Louis, New Orleans. Too far north and he doesn't think he could handle the cold. Too far south means relentless, oppressive humidity. Seattle and Denver feel too close, Boston and New York too far and intimidating. That leaves only Chicago, St Louis, and Nashville, but those were just off the top of his head. Once he gets far enough away, into another state at the very least, Stiles can stop and do research, find more, maybe better, options.

With the donuts gone and a general direction to go in, Stiles relieves himself in the woods and settles in for a long and winding ride.

: : :

Stiles drives south for another hour, looking for a busy gas station along the main highway. He stops to top of the tank, checking the surveillance cameras for angles, and pays cash, exchanging a little small talk with the attendant about his last pre-college bender trip to Mexico. From there, he angles the Jeep south again, keeping traffic cameras in mind until he gets on the interstate. After that, it takes a few loops and a lot of patience to (hopefully) lose himself in the mass of cars, but after another half hour, it feels safe enough to peel off into a new direction.

Going west won't get him very far, but it'll make for a scenic drive north to Oregon. 

Of course, a scenic highway in the middle of the day means little traffic, and Stiles has to play games with himself to keep his mind from wandering. Counting the seconds between one mile marker and the next, counting how many cars of one color he sees. Keeping track of how many park entrances he passes or all the different wildlife he sees. It all helps hold off the memories of the night before, Scott's disappointed face and the sad scrawl of his dad's handwriting. Thinking about that only feeds the knot in his chest, and Stiles can't afford a panic attack right now, not with the cliffs to one side and remote mountains to the other. Stiles won't even take the chance to see if his new burner phone gets cell service up here.

He stops every few hours, to stretch his legs or use the woods. Stop at a gas station, just in case. But only if it looks a little ragged, with little chance of security. Closer to the Oregon border, the highway veers east, providing a small change in scenery. Stiles gnaws on a Twizzler as he passes by Lake Earl.

After nine grueling hours, with only a sliver of sun left on the horizon and the Jeep's wheels firmly in Oregon, Stiles finds an inviting little restaurant advertising authentic Mexican food at a reasonable rate. It's as good a place as any for dinner, and Stiles' stomach agrees with a hearty, well-timed rumble.

: : :

It's a nice night to be sitting out on a patio, eating delicious, greasy tacos by the dozen, and sipping root beer from an ice cold bottle. There isn't much to look at, from his point of view, but this late at night, it's quiet, the music from inside a backdrop to the wind pushing through the trees. If only it were easier to relax, to shut off his brain for even five minutes.

There's so much going on, not even his medicine can help.

At least the waitstaff doesn't bother him out on the patio. He can see them through the windows, going about their nightly closing routine, but he doesn't need much out here. And the waiter is attentive enough to keep Stiles in fresh root beers, when he needs them. It's comforting enough that his mind wanders a little, imagining sitting out here with Scott, shooting the shit on their first night of an epic road trip, which leads to a sour twist in his gut that has Stiles wanting to vomit.

_That's never going to happen now,_ he tells himself, using napkins to clean up any greasy fingerprints he left on the table. _The sooner you realize that, the better off you'll be._

After leaving a generous tip, Stiles wanders along the highway for a little while, his eyes starting to droop. Stiles is proud of himself for making it this far, considering the stress of the day and the generous nap he managed in Derek's bedraggled loft. Wearing himself out to the point of exhaustion was kind of the goal though, hoping it would help him sleep better. If he can find a motel.

He passes by two drug stores, a gas station-slash-body shop, a McDonald's (Stiles takes note of its location for breakfast reasons), and a brightly lit Gas and Sip before hitting the motel. It looks exactly like the ones coming in and out of Beacon Hills; different names, same ramshackle exterior. Two stories high, painted in colors that were popular in the seventies, weedy fields surrounding it on three sides. The night manager is nice. Not the seedy pervert cliché from every movie Stiles has ever seen. Seems concerned without asking Stiles a million questions. Makes Stiles feel a little less like a serial killer's gonna jump out at him in the shower.

Fourty-nine bucks and one honest to god key later, Stiles is shoving his way into a room two doors down from the office. Being in sight of a bed flips some kind of switch in Stiles, turning his legs to lead. He's grateful he grabbed his pillow on the way in. There's no way he'll make it ou—

: : :

Stiles wakes up to weak September sunlight hitting him right in the eyes, one leg dangling over the edge of the mattress, the other kicked up to rest against the wall. Considering he more or less passed out where he stood, having more than fifty percent of himself still on the bed is an achievement. Add to that seven straight hours of sleep with no nightmares (that he can remember, at least)? "Winning," Stiles sing-songs to himself.

After a shower and brushing all the Mexican gunk out of his teeth, the day ahead doesn't look so bad. As long as he doesn't think about why he's doing it, where he's going, or what's going to happen when he gets there.

R _iiiii_ ght.

The night manager is still at the desk, this early in the morning, and helps direct Stiles to the nearest local diner. He has a craving for French toast that can _not_ be denied. 

With an affectionate pat to the Jeep's tail light, Stiles jumps in, ready face the day. It feels weird, not having to worry about what supernatural disaster he'll have to face next or whether anybody will figure out his secret. The sour weight in his stomach not gone, but less. Lighter. Less gut-wrenching. 

Once he settles behind the wheel, Stiles takes a deep breath, letting his eyes slip shut as he takes a moment to think about everybody he left behind. It's not a prayer, exactly, but something like it. An acknowledgment. A _belief_. It might not help, but thinking good thoughts never hurt anything, either.

Stiles turns the key in the ignition and—

— and nothing. 

It's not the first time Roscoe hasn't started on the first try. He's a temperamental old geezer. Sometimes he needs a little love to pave the way. "And you did do an awful lot of work yesterday," Stiles croons, stroking the wheel. "Which I appreciate more than you know. But we can't stay here, buddy. We're too close yet. So if you please?"

Stiles tries the key again. 

Silence.

Again.

Silence.

"One more time, buddy. _Please_."

This time, the Jeep gives a wheezy sort of cough, sounding so much like a human, Stiles jerks his head around, expecting there to be someone behind him. There isn't.

Stiles drops his forehead to the steering wheel, fingers tightening around cracked leather. "Spending Derek's money on you was not what I had planned, Roz." 

He checks everything he can; the gas and oil gauge, then stumbling out to flip open the hood to see where the smoke's coming from. There is none, of course. No sign at all of what the problem might be. That scares him more than the darkest plume of smoke ever has.

With a rusty screech, he drops the hood and hops up onto it, elbows braced on his knees to help him figure out what to do. There's no way any reputable company would rent a car to a seventeen year old, and buying one, even a used one, would put a serious dent in what little money he took with him. Plus, who knows how long _it_ would last. Stiles could hitchhike, but that leaves him far more exposed to getting caught by the cops and returned back to California. 

Before Stiles' thoughts spiral too far out of control, a light hand on his shoulder grabs his attention. Stiles swivels on the hood, a palm held over his racing heart. "Oh, hi," he says, a little breathless, for lack of something more intelligent to say; it's the night manager — Taylor, Stiles reminds himself — looking curious and concerned.

"Need help with something?"

Stiles takes a measured breath and waves a hand over his Jeep. "Bucket of bolts has finally quit, I think."

"It does look a little worse for wear," Taylor nods. "No offense."

"Considering his insides are more duct tape than machine?" Stiles squints down at his hands, "None taken."

"There's a garage just up the way." Taylor points down the road. "Sam's okay in a pinch, but if you can afford the tow, Kris' shop is two towns over and they're much more customer-friendly, if you can believe it. Quick, too. Kaya's in for the day," Taylor continues, gesturing at the motel office. "She can get you connected, whichever one you choose." After a friendly handshake, Stiles watches Taylor slide into an old Impala. It shows a bit of wear, but the motor's rumble is kind of hypnotizing. 

Stiles thinks about it on the way into the motel office. He _is_ in a bit of a rush, but he also has a long, sordid history with asshole mechanics that has him leaning toward Taylor's second suggestion. What seals it is the reasonable price for a tow.

(Stiles has a history with those, too.)

: : :

Kris is a woman, as it turns out. Nice, talkative without being a babbler. Friendly without being overbearing. She has dark hair and darker eyes, and though she reminds him of Lydia in build and delicacy, she handles the Jeep like she could bench press it one-handed.

Stiles wants to ask if she's a werewolf, but that's not something one can slip into polite conversation.

Her garage looks homey, for a given value of the word. Small and neat, with four wide bays and a building on the end that looks more like a house. The clichéd detritus is missing from the front, rusted out buckets and stacks of tires replaced with a dozen shiny luxury cars and a squat little marquee offering quality work at affordable prices. 

"One of these things is not like the other," Stiles mutters to himself as Kris backs into the only open repair bay.

"Hmm?"

Stiles waves a finger at the line of cars in front of them, squinting against the reflecting sunlight. "You sure Roscoe won't bring down your property values?"

"Oh, those," Kris chuckles. "We have to cater to all types, here. Those are how I can keep my rates so reasonable. Besides, one of my guys prefers older models, the ones on their last legs, that need a extra love and attention. When he gets his eyes on this one, he might actually smile. If he does, I'll knock off a hundred bucks." She hops out of the driver's seat with wink and directs him to the office.

Stiles doesn't see anybody on his walk in, but he can hear shuffling feet and the hum of power tools over the din of a classic rock station. It all fades as he steps into the house. Everything except the music, which seems to be wired throughout the house, too. 

Kris slips in after a few minutes, before Stiles can wander too far, and leads Stiles over to a desk that looks like it could command a fleet of battleships on top of running an independent garage. Kris knows where everything is though, not hesitating on which drawer holds the paperwork she's looking for. Stiles admires that kind of organization.

She hands him everything with a clipboard with a pen. "Fill out all this while my guy looks at your Jeep. Once we get a better idea of the situation, we can talk about what you want done versus what needs to be done and what kind of payment plan works best for you."

"Payment plan?" Stiles asks, sounding skeptical.

She flicks him on the ear on her way back to the garage. "I'm not a soulless automaton, Stiles."

Stiles stares at the papers asking for all his info; home address, insurance, and place of employment all sit blank, a cold, silent reminder of where he was just twenty-four hours ago. They hadn't talked about his situation in the truck, so he leaves all those blank and skips from name to his phone number. He has to check the phone itself to make sure he remembers it right.

Since he wasn't in an accident, there isn't much more to fill out, and the silence stretches for long enough that Stiles' leg starts to bounce up and down. He knew the Jeep was in bad shape, but facing the stark reality of it is another thing altogether.

With a sigh, he shoves himself out of the chair and tosses the clipboard down, heading for the door back to the garage. It swings open before he can get a hand on it and Stiles takes a startled step back, hands up, to watch Kris walk in. There's a guy behind her; tall, dark-haired. Stiles can't see the guy's face with his head ducked down, but there are wide, tan shoulder, bare except for the greasy white tank top, and a broad chest leading to narrow hips framed by the open, unbuttoned top of the guy's coveralls. 

Stiles never thought he could have a grease monkey kink, considering his history, but he could really— 

"Stiles?!" says a voice.

Stiles locks eyes with Derek fucking Hale and stumbles back a step. "Well. That was fun while it lasted."

: : :

After a brief summation to Kris about how Derek and Stiles know each other (which also confirms Stiles' prediction of Kris' lycanthropic status), a shorter description of Stiles' situation, and a longer explanation about what's wrong with the Jeep (tl;dr everything), Stiles is back in the tow truck, retracing his route to the motel and what little he left behind in his room. The difference this time is that Derek's behind the wheel, stuck with nothing to do until a multitude of parts come in. Apparently it's not common to stock parts for cars that were new in the early 80's. Stiles would file a complaint, except Kris is the total opposite of every douche bag mechanic Stiles has ever dealt with, making it near impossible to resent her.

Derek, on the other hand…

He hasn't said a word since he started the truck. Not that Stiles is surprised. In truth, he isn't sure what to say, either. He never really imagined ever seeing Derek again, despite what his note said. And seeing him now, while Stiles is trying to get away from everybody he's ever known, is like a giant record scratch in his head, overriding everything, including the oppressive weight of despair he's been carrying around. It's weird in that it isn't weird, the relief. For all Stiles is take charge when he needs to be, this whole running away situation has felt too vast from the get-go. Maybe having Derek around to point out all the ways in which it won't work will help sharpen Stiles' focus enough to prove why it _will_.

But first.

"You can't tell anyone I'm here." It needs to be said, even though he suspects Derek isn't in contact with anybody from Beacon Hills, except Cora who, last Stiles heard, is in Colombia. 

"Why not?"

"Because I asked you not to?"

Derek huffs. "What are you even doing up here? This is what, an eight hour drive?"

"Give or take," Stiles says, head wobbling from side to side, trying to sound more casual than he feels.

"You're supposed to be in school."

"It's my last year, Derek," Stiles snorts. "Gotta experience the great wide world before I get too bogged down in college and adulthood. Most companies frown upon extended vacation nowadays, haven't you heard?"

"Doesn't that come _after_ graduation?"

"Eh," Stiles shrugs. "Got tired of waiting."

There is nothing Derek can say that will get Stiles to confess everything that went down, so they both stew in silence the rest of the way to the motel. In the parking lot, Derek pulls his keys from the ignition to give Stiles his full attention. "What. Happened."

There are two ways this could go: Stiles could tell Derek and ruin what seems to be a pretty peaceful existence for a guy who's dealt with nothing but pain, torture, and asshole teenagers for the better part of two years. Or Stiles could not tell Derek and deal with the consequences of his actions on his own, like he's been doing for oh so very long. 

"Listen," Stiles says, trying to put a little attitude behind it. "You left. Again. Without saying good-bye. _Again_. You forfeited your right to information about us the second you stepped over the county line. If you're gonna have ethical issues with fixing Roz, I'll be happy to take him someplace else. But otherwise? Stay out of my business."

Stiles fumbles out of the tow truck and jogs to his motel room before the subtle, sad crumple of Derek's face has Stiles confessing everything.

: : :

The ride back to the garage is silent, save for the low music from the radio, reminding Stiles of the early days of their not-quite-friendship, with Stiles behind the wheel and Derek barking orders. It's kind of comforting. Stiles would even comment on the small role reversal except for how he wants to avoid saying anything that'll open up a new line of questioning for Derek.

Kris greets them when they return, explaining the cost and estimated delivery time for the parts. It's a week, at least, which is not ideal, but at Stiles can be grateful he isn't stuck in some metropolis crawling with law enforcement. And who knows about keeping their head down better than werewolves.

Derek peels off after the business portion, Stiles watching him shove down the top half of his grease-stained jumpsuit, as Kris leads Stiles through the house-slash-office to the handful of bedrooms on the second floor.

"You'd be surprised how many travelers we get through here," she explains, leading Stiles into the first room on the left. "Usually it's just a night or two, if they're willing to pay for express shipping. Others are in it for the adventure, like you, and are willing to wait. Since there aren't many motels, I offer them a room here for a small extra fee. They're always grateful."

"And being a werewolf, you aren't too worried about being ripped off or assaulted," Stiles guesses, dropping his bag into one corner.

Kris winks.

: : :

While getting stranded in the middle of nowhere has its advantages, there is also a downside. Mainly, there being nothing to keep Stiles occupied while he waits. No mall, no movie theater, not even a dusty old video game machine to keep Stiles' attention. Kris has a TV in the living-cum-waiting room downstairs, but daytime television sucks and down there, he runs the risk of bumping into Derek, either while taking care of a customer or sitting down for his lunch break.

He finds peace in the Jeep, moved from the bay while they wait for the parts to come in. Kris even parked it out back, out of view of the main road, not that there's much traffic to hide it from. Stiles still appreciates her caution, though, and is grateful it's close enough to the house that he can pick up her WiFi signal with no trouble. Then, with one tab open to the BHPD's police band, Stiles opens a series of blank tabs and uses his time to plot out the rest of his trip.

It's kind of familiar in a way Stiles doesn't really want to think about. _Can't_ think about if he wants to get through it. And yeah, maybe listening to the scratchy voices of people he loves like family is a special kind of torture, it's also comforting, like wrapping himself up in a warm blanket

Except the fuzzy feeling is gone the second Stiles hears his dad's voice. Stiles feels all the air rush out of his lungs and he closes his eyes, blocking out everything except his dad, talking about another missing body. He tells himself the crappy radio quality exaggerates the weary sigh at the end, making it sound harsher than it must be.

His dad's voice hurts more than Stiles expected and his eyes fall shut against the burst of pain in his chest. After all, it's not like Stiles had this with his mom. No home videos to watch or last minute voice mails to listen to. All he had left of her was the fading scent of her perfume and the pillow she made out of his tattered, beloved blankie. The million little things she did that made their house a home. 

Stiles forces himself to listen, from beginning to end. It isn't anything major, at least, but that only makes the weary tone even worse, churning up guilt in Stiles' stomach. _It's the least I deserve_ , Stiles tells himself, wiping at the tears on his cheeks, every one a punishment.

Taking a deep breath, Stiles opens his eyes to keep researching, but Derek is there, standing in front of the Jeep with a paper sack in one hand and a bottle of iced green tea in the other. His head is cocked to one side, his eyebrows drawn together, and he's as still as Stiles feels. It doesn't even look like his chest is moving to breathe. Stiles waits him out, expecting— something. Getting yanked out of the Jeep at the very least. Forced to confess everything. 

Derek takes a deep breath, Stiles braces himself and—

—and Derek walks past the Jeep with a curt nod in Stiles' direction.

Stiles resolves not to listen to the police band outside of his room after that.

: : :

If Stiles thought trying to keep himself occupied during the daytime was bad, night time is worse. With no noise coming from the garage or the quiet din of people milling about in the waiting area, the house is too big for just one person. And it's not like Stiles can truly make himself at home in someone else's house. Not when they might be able to smell evidence of anything…untoward.

He can sprawl out in front of the giant TV, though. Hook up his laptop with his trusty HDMI cable and get lost in not entirely legally obtained movies for awhile. In the kitchen that serves as a break room for the mechanics, Stiles even finds packets of microwave popcorn. The extra buttery kind he loves.

Armed with his first of what promises to be several bags and a tall glass of water (no soda machine, ugh), Stiles settles in for a long night of brainless entertainment, designed to keep him more aggravated with the lunacy on his screen rather than the mess of his life.

That works for as long as it takes for the volume to go down without Stiles touching a damn thing, what the hell?

He leans onto his side on the couch, craning his neck as long as it will go so he can see around the wall. He didn't hear anybody come in, but he did have the TV on pretty loud. He wonders if Kris would've come back to check on him or if there are ghosts she didn't bother to tell him about. Stiles thinks it says a lot about his life that the odds are close to fifty-fifty, either way.

Derek emerging from the shadows, however, probably should've ranked a little higher.

"Did I disturb you?" Stiles says. He stretches a little, making himself more comfortable on his side. On the TV, Mark Wahlberg is under attack from a discombobulated Optimus Prime. Turns out, it's a lot more entertaining without the shitty dialog.

"Was afraid you might go deaf from how loud it was."

Stiles snorts. "It wasn't that bad."

"I was in the last bay."

Stiles leans forward, eyes narrowed. "And you have supernatural hearing."

Derek's head bobs from side to side, one side of his mouth pulled up. "Whatever you have to tell yourself." 

Stiles wants to say something back, but then Derek comes into the light, heading for the kitchen, and Stiles gets distracted by broad, bare shoulders and a grimy tank top. Depending on how long he's stuck here, Stiles thinks about carving out some time to figure out why the undone jumpsuit look is so fucking hot. It's just a scrap of material pooled around Derek's narrow waist. It shouldn't make Stiles' mouth dry up like it does.

Stiles doesn't realize he's about to tip off of the couch until it happens, too stuck on Derek's retreating back to steady himself in time. He flail-rolls into a low crouch and springs to his feet, trying to disguise the sound even though Derek's shoulders are already shaking. Indignant, Stiles catches up to him in the kitchen and pokes him in the back of the head. "What're you doing here this late anyway? The garage's been closed for hours."

Grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator, Derek lifts one shoulder in something like a shrug. "I like working late, after closing. With no overbearing customers around, I get more done." 

Stiles tries not to watch Derek down half of the water in one long swallow, but there's something about the way his Adam's apple bobs, slow and relaxed. In the silence, Stiles can hear the wet sounds, a small noise of relief. Even the smudges of grease darkening Derek's skin don't help. Stiles coughs and spins away, eyes trained on the floor while, behind him, Derek works through the rest of his water.

Before things can get awkward, Stiles retreats to the couch and the movie, restarting it, but at a lower volume. He can hear Derek going through cabinets and the rush of the sink, and then he's back, looming in the door way with water droplets clinging to the hair around his face. It looks like he tried to clean up a little, but only succeeded in moving the dirt around rather than off. Not that Stiles cares either way.

Stiles is too busy watching Derek's bare shoulders disappear under blue cotton twill to register Derek asking a question. He blinks twice and scans up, frowning. "What was that?"

Derek sighs, head tilting to one side. "Do. You. Want to get out of here." 

Stiles snorts and settles into the couch, arms crossed over his chest. "Not with that attitude."

Derek shrugs with his whole body, face included. "Can't say I didn't try."

Twitching, Stiles watches him stride through the room and out the door. It would be nice to get out for a little bit, if he's honest. Maybe get a decent dinner. Kris had offered him the use of a loaner car, but he'd turned it down, feeling guilty for all of her generosity thus far. Now, stuck in the house all alone with only sheer force of guilt to prevent him from listening to the police band website all night, Stiles might be regretting his decision a little bit.

He jumps up from the couch and bursts through the door, hoping to catch Derek before he leaves. What he finds instead is Derek slinging one leg over a sleek motorcycle parked in the far corner of the lot. Gilded in the setting sun, the sight is enough to stop Stiles in his tracks. He watches Derek go through all the checks and switches, and then the engine is on, the rumble of it vibrating in Stiles' bones, jarring him into action. He darts ahead and grabs hold of Derek's sleeve, gasping, "I changed my mind. I want to live."

Derek flashes Stiles a bright, toothy grin, says, "I'll be back in twenty," and leaves Stiles in a dusty cloud of rumbling hormones.

_Asshole_.

: : :

It takes him closer to thirty minutes to come back, not that Stiles watched the clock or anything. Thanks to Derek's dedication to American-made motorcycles and rural Oregon, Stiles hears Derek return with enough time to get himself out front and watch Derek roll to a smooth stop.

It seems Derek used his time more wisely, exchanging his coveralls for jeans and a leather jacket. It's not the same jacket from before, the one with the too-long sleeves that made Derek seem so young. This one fits better, tighter. Stiles can't decide what's more frustrating: the length of the jacket drawing his attention to Derek's hips and groin, or the open snap collar, framing Derek's collar bone and the chest hair revealed by the open placket of his gray henley. 

Either way, he doesn't notice Derek taking off a helmet until it's pushed into Stiles' hands. Stiles takes it, confused. Derek points at Stiles' head and says, "Price of admission." Then, he takes in what Stiles is wearing and peels out of his jacket. "You'll need this, too." Stiles takes it more to keep it from falling on the ground than anything. 

"Impervious to the cold, are we?" Stiles snarks, handing back the jacket.

"Being a werewolf has its advantages."

"Yeah," Stiles breathes, trying not to be too obvious in his ogling of Derek's thighs and butt. Or his hands on the grips. Stiles swallows. "This is not what I had in mind." 

Derek quirks an eyebrow. "You can face down hunters and werewolves and horny orgres, but can't handle a single motorcycle ride?" He tsks, actually goddamn tsks. Stiles would punch him if it wouldn't break his hand.

The problem is, all Stiles can think about is the first time Deputy Ramirez pulled up to the house on her dad's old Ducati and offered to take seven year old Stiles for a careful spin around the block. It was something, watching her swing her leg off the seat and saunter up to the door, her dark hair damp with sweat, and a helmet tucked under her arm.

His dad watched from the sidewalk as she went up and down the street, probably no more than five miles an hour, but it was still a rush, a thrill tickling Stiles' stomach, the wind pushing at his face and through his hair.

The same thrill is there now, a little deeper maybe, fueled by something more, and there's no way Stiles is going to let Derek win this game of chicken.

"I'll have you know," Stiles says as he scrambles into the jacket — it's a little loose in the shoulders and short on the arms, but it'll do — and helmet, "this is not my first motorcycle ride. I have been a bike aficionado since the tender age of seven." Stiles can't heard Derek's snort, but he's snugged up close and feels Derek shudder with it. He looks down then, at their legs pressed together, and thinks about how this is the closest they've ever been, physically, without one or the other almost bleeding out. It's a nice change of pace, Derek letting Stiles into his personal space like this, giving him permission.

"Hold on," Derek yells over his shoulder. His hand is warm on Stiles' guiding them to Derek's stomach. "Squeeze if you have to puke."

"What?!" Stiles squawks, but he's too late; the engine revs and they're on the road, the wind and nature and twilight streaming by.

: : :

Derek chases the sunset like it's the last thing he'll ever do, taking hills and curves at a speed that makes Stiles' stomach swoop, leaving him breathless. And Stiles goes with it, tightening his arms around Derek as he closes his eyes and gives in to the roller coaster rush. The roar of the bike mixed with the wind is loud enough to drown out Stiles' brain, giving him his first taste of relief in days. It's better than Adderall in some ways, muffling all the thoughts and any hitch in his breathing. Stiles could almost believe he's floating, if it weren't for the weight of the bike underneath him. Derek's warm, solid body between his legs.

Once they hit the coast, Derek slows down and Stiles turns his face toward the ocean, catching the last minutes of the sun, the sliver of rippling orange left on the water. Stiles can't decide if it's a comfort or not, how the world keeps turning, even as his entire life feels like it's falling apart. A part of Stiles wishes everything would fall to pieces with him, at least then he wouldn't be alone. But the bigger part reminds him that he's shouldering this burden to make everybody's else's lives better. He can't have it both ways, so he takes a breath and closes his eyes, working to keep his mind from wandering, to stay rooted in this moment, for however long it lasts.

It lasts awhile. Derek drives and drives, the road a seemingly endless ribbon in front of and behind them. It's mostly forest they pass, dotted with the occasional gas station or diner. Stiles gives a vague thought to the time, to the tickle in his gut that indicates hunger, but he's in no rush and the helmet will muffle anything he asks. It feels…unusual, giving over control to Derek of all people, but on the bike like this, with his head empty, it's easy to give in to the exhaustion. To burden someone else for a moment.

A haze of light in front of them indicates something bigger than a gas station, and Derek slows to make the turn. "Ready to go back?" he yells over the wind, head turned to one side. Stiles wants to say no. Wants to drive and drive and keep the memories at bay. He closes his eyes against them, the bloody image of Donovan edging closer, and nods. 

While Derek pumps gas, Stiles visits the restroom, then contemplates the benefits of a Slim Jim dinner. Derek stops him with a hand around his wrists and says, "We'll get something on the way back." He looks like the Slim Jims have personally offended him, and the small bit of Old Stiles left wants to buy one just to spite Derek. That, at least, feels familiar. 

An hour and a half and one diner cheeseburger later, Derek is pulling into the parking lot for the garage and helping Stiles stay upright on tired, wobbly legs.

"I didn't even drink," Stiles mutters to himself, glaring at his own feet. 

Derek's chuckle sounds weird in the quiet, making Stiles' stomach churn in a not entirely unpleasant sort of way. "It's the vibrations. Happens to everybody. Also," he waggles a finger in the vicinity of Stiles' face, "you look a little tired."

Stiles makes a grab for it, missing by a mile. "I forgot what a sweet talker you are."

"Got you on my bike, didn't I?"

"Ugh, go away." He shoves Derek's shoulder, too tired for a proper comeback. 

"Don't I get a thank you?" Derek asks, his face trying to look innocent. The eyebrows ruin the effect. Also, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"Yes," Stiles says, spinning on his heel so Derek can't see him smile. "Thanks for not getting me killed."

"It was my extreme pleasure, Stiles." 

"You'd better get back before that butter melts in your mouth, _Derek_!"

Stiles doesn't look back, but he's pretty sure Derek revs the engine of the bike to drown out a laugh.

: : :

And so it goes.

Stiles spends his days alternating between the BHPD radio band and planning where to go from here. Derek keeps his distance until sunset, and then shows up with his bike and the silent promise of dinner and no questions. The helmet he brought the first night looks at home on Stiles' nightstand, his jacket slung over the club chair in the corner.

Stiles tries not to think about it.

On the third day, Kris comes in for lunch and catches Stiles staring out the kitchen window, gnawing at his nails. It's obvious that it takes her a few tries to break him out of his thoughts, the echoes of the BHPD clogging up his head, and he flinches from the knowing pity in her eyes. She puts him to work that afternoon; for all that she's organized as far as hard copies are concerned, her database could use a little tune-up. 

It's the perfect thing to keep Stiles from going stir-crazy.

When he gets tired of inputting customer information, he tumbles out into the garage to work on inventory, trading jokes with her other employees all the while. Other than Derek, the only one who works every day, she has four other employees that share the two repair bays closest to the house. Only Derek and Kris have their own, and they're _very_ tetchy about anybody intruding on their territory. 

Stiles chalks it up to the werewolf thing.

They all take to Stiles, though. They're not a pack—the only other werewolf is Domingo—but they feel like a family all the same, all of them preening any time Kris shows them a hint of positive reinforcement. Stiles understands the feeling. Though they haven't spoken much, she feels like the older sister he never wanted, but desperately needed. Several times a day, Stiles takes a moment to thank his luck he ended up here and not some soulless chop shop.

Being out in the garage, all of them treating him less like a mascot and more like an equal, makes it easier for Stiles to think. To ration out his time with the police radio. It gives him hope for whatever comes next, that if he has to have a scorched earth policy with Beacon Hills and everybody in it, at least there's somewhere else he can fall back on if he needs to. If he's desperate.

The only weird part about it is how Derek keeps his distance during the day. He'll talk to Stiles if it's required, but he shows no interest in Stiles beyond asking him to pull down a part or look up the price of something. Stiles doesn't worry about it much, but it does strike him as odd sometimes, that he's more or less dealing with two people in the same body: untouchable during the day, teasing at night.

: : :

It takes Stiles a week to realize that, while he's more or less Kris' receptionist, he doesn't deal with the mail or ordering parts, and that he has no idea what the ETA is on the parts for Roscoe. He asks her at lunch that day, so that he can maybe put a time frame on the next leg of his journey.

"Your car is twenty years old, Stiles." she says. "Tracking down parts is a job in an of itself. Calling old scrap yards and parts dealers? It takes time."

It's logical enough—it's not like this is the first time Stiles has dealt with having to wait for repairs—but the idea of being within a day's drive of Beacon Hill is like an itch he can't scratch. He hasn't picked up anything on the police band, and there's no mention of an Amber Alert on the news. Even the Beacon County newspaper doesn't mention him missing, or anything else out of the ordinary. Stiles isn't sure whether to feel relieved or hurt. 

It's not common for his luck to hold out like this, and it makes him a little antsy.

Derek notices that night. They rode east this time, over hills and through valleys, close enough to a roller coaster to satisfy the casual thrill seeker. Dinner is at another all-night diner, but Derek orders breakfast this time. Which, it's close enough to dawn for it to be morning anyway. Stiles still orders the double bacon cheeseburger with extra curly fries. Derek is used to it by now and doesn't bother to shake his head.

It's at the end of the meal, eaten in mostly silence, that Stiles picks up on the different script for tonight. Derek kicks up his feet in their booth, boxing in Stiles on the opposite side of the table, and tips his head back, hands folded over his stomach. Stiles chalks it up to all the food he ate, and mimics the position. 

It's kind of comforting to lose himself in the din of the diner. It's just like any other, ubiquitous and unique at the same time. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he's back home, having the occasional pancake breakfast with his dad. To celebrate straight As or recover from a lacrosse game. The warm weight of Derek's boots at Stiles' hip could easily be Scott, bumping elbows while they not-so-secretly try to see who can eat their food the fastest.

It isn't the first time Stiles has thought of Scott since he showed up at Kris' garage, but it's the first time it snuck up on him, and the tears are spilling out before he can stop them. He holds himself still and focuses on Dom's steady hands, from earlier in the day, showing Stiles how to clean a carburetor. It helps calm Stiles' breathing, but does nothing for the tears. 

"You might not believe this," Derek says, his voice steady and quiet, drifting over the table, "but it was pretty hard for me to leave without telling anybody."

"So why did you?" Stiles asks after a minute, working hard to keep his voice steady.

"Because I thought you were better off. All of you," Derek says after a minute. Stiles' eyes are still closed, but he can feel the weight of Derek's gaze on him anyway. "I was sure you'd be better of without me."

Stiles snorts. "You weren't wrong," he says on reflex, then winces. "That was—" he opens his eyes and takes in Derek; head bowed, hands clasped in his lap. "I didn't mean that. I'm sorry."

"It's okay—"

"No, it really isn't, you're helping me and—"

"—Okay it's not but—" Derek takes a deep breath, flashes the tabletop a wry smile. "You're allowed to be mad."

"I'm really not."

"Agree to disagree." 

Stiles nudges Derek in the hip with toes. Silence falls again, Stiles chewing on his lip. He isn't sure if Derek has anything else to get off his chest, but it's not like he can go anywhere, either. Well, except the bathroom, but that can wait. He wants to make sure Derek's done with the heart to heart, first.

Derek gets up instead, reaching for the bill without another word. Stiles is surprised, and also relieved, and scrambles out of the booth for the bathroom. 

The ride home feels twice as long, if only because Derek's sense of timing is for shit, and there's no hill steep enough to stop Derek's confession from bouncing around in Stiles' head. For the first time since their little routine started, the only thing Stiles can do is think and think some more. Not that it gets him anywhere.

The sky is a dusky blue when they pull into the garage parking lot and Stiles, starting to feel the exhaustion now, eases himself off of the bike with one steadying hand on Derek's arm. Derek aims the bike for the road, but Stiles tightens his grip, drawing Derek's attention. With a shake of Stiles' head, Derek turns off the bike and waits for Stiles to slip out of the helmet.

"Everything okay?" Derek asks. 

Stiles yawns wide enough for his jaw to crack. "Yeah," he says. "I just had a, uh, question?"

Derek's face looks amused. "You have a question about a question?"

"Yes," Stiles says with a nod. "No, I mean. Ugh." Stiles shoves at his arm. His exhaustion throws off his follow through and he ends up closer to Derek, their thighs pressed together. 

Derek reaches out a hand to steady Stiles. "Didn't mean to keep you out so late, grandpa." 

"Not having to worry about supernatural threats seems to be spoiling me."

The reminder dims Derek's face a little and he ducks his head, swallowing hard enough for Stiles to hear. "Yeah," he says, voice turned rough. "It's hard to get used to." Stiles would kick himself if he didn't think it'd end with him faceplanted into Derek's chest. But Derek clears his throat and pushes right past the awkward, taking back his hand. "So what was your question?"

"Right," Stiles says, nodding, putting a bit of distance between them. "I was just, y'know, wondering how come you ended up here?" He looks down at his helmet, frowning. "Doesn't this feel a little too close to home? Like we might've found you at any minute?"

"It did for a while," Derek admits, quiet. "But Kris helped me learn to not look over my shoulder so much, and then it was okay. I think—" He pauses and turns his head, squinting at something across the parking lot. "I think, at some point, a part of me kind of hoped one of you would find me." He turns back to Stiles looking like his younger self for a startling second. "Even if it wasn't because you wanted me to come back."

Stunned at the honesty, the show of vulnerability, Stiles remains outside the house, rearranging everything he knows about Derek, long after the last echos of Derek's motorcycle fade away.

: : :

Derek breaks their pseudo-protocol the next day, seeking out Stiles while it's still light out for the first time. Between the loud music, the cacophony of power tools, and being tucked in the shadows of Kris' shelves, the tap on Stiles' shoulder is not only surprising, but disorienting, and he has a flash memory of a hand on his shoulder, pulling him down. He doesn't scream, but there is a giant flail, Stiles' arm whipping around before he can turn to look. Derek catches him by the wrist, not tight, but enough for Stiles to jerk out of his grip anyway.

Stiles takes a few breaths to assess the situation and calm his racing heart, grateful for Derek's obvious step back. "I forgot how quiet you can be," Stiles says after he catches his breath. "Shoulda brought a cow bell to put on you."

Derek lips quirk, but he doesn't smile. He looks concerned. Maybe even a little sad. Stiles braces himself for the obvious ask.

"I can't go riding tonight."

"What?" Stiles says, speechless. That was not the combination of words he was expecting. He shakes his head and says again, "What?"

"I have to go see a guy about a thing," Derek explains, looking down at his hands. "I won't be back in time and I— " he takes a deep breath. "I didn't want you to be waiting for me."

"What?" Derek willingly sharing future plans does not compute. And the thing is, it's probably a lie — 'to see a _guy_ about a _thing_?' c'mon — but it's progress anyway. And Stiles, despite his extensive track record, can be a generous guy. After the night they'd had, and Derek's confession, Stiles can give him some room to recover. It's the right thing to do, not make a big deal of it. 

"That's cool," Stiles says, hoping the shape of his mouth resembles a smile. "I should probably work through my Netflix queue anyway." 

It takes a lot more willpower than Stiles expected to not be too disappointed. The rides were never guaranteed but, as it turns out, they were the most effective way for Stiles to get out of his head and quell the dread in his stomach. There is no amount of busy work or brainless action movies that can get Stiles to not think about what his dad's up to, or Scott or Lydia, and in the end, he falls asleep listening to the police scanner on his laptop.

Stiles doesn't go looking for Derek the next day. It's just that some new stock came in, and the shelves Kris wants them on happen to be near Derek's bay. Stiles isn't missing Derek at all, and the old '67 Impala sitting idle there definitely doesn't make Stiles' stomach twist. He sticks to database work after that, until Kris comes in for lunch and herds him into the kitchen, too.

"He's negotiating for a part," she says into the refrigerator.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Stiles sniffs. He leans one arm on his thigh to keep his foot from bouncing.

Kris smirks at him.

It does help that Kris isn't worried, though. At least in the worrying for Derek's safety department. Funny how quick that came back considering how long Derek's been gone. It's less help with the mind-numbing angle, though. Two days with no sign of Derek and Stiles has fourteen different plans lined out and about four hours of sleep. Total. Good thing he'd refilled his prescription the week before he left. He hasn't figured out that part yet.

: : :

Derek shows up the morning of the fourth day.

Stiles walks into the kitchen in a pair of pajamas and a BHPD t-shirt and Derek's there sitting on the counter, a grungy part in one hand, a toothbrush and paper towel in the other.

"Should you be cleaning that in here?" Stiles blurts, glad that it wasn't something more like, _Thank fuck you finally came back._ It's a lot harder to not get right up in there and take a hit of Derek's warmth, his scent. Stiles is too sleep-deprived to try and figure out when _that_ became a thing.

Derek flashes him a quick smile, only giving Stiles a moment of his attention. "Wanted to surprise you."

"Consider me surprised," Stiles says, throwing in a lazy attempt at jazz hands. He comes closer under the guise of wanting a better look at whatever Derek's cleaning. "What is it?"

"It's yours." Derek's head bobs from side to side. "For your Jeep."

"Oh," Stiles says, freezing in place. He tries to swallow around the knot in his throat. "I, uh. Wow." He tries to drag up some enthusiasm, but it hits him, watching Derek scrub at a stubborn grease stain: it's almost like he kind of thought this was never going to happen. That he might be stuck here forever, or at least stuck saying good-bye to his Jeep. The idea of moving on? He has two dozen plans, _detailed_ plans, by now. All of them waiting for him on his laptop. This puts him one actual step closer to the wide open world and it feels like too much, too soon. 

Derek studies him. "I thought you'd be a little happier."

Stiles jerks back and pastes on what he hopes is a smile. "Oh, no. Yeah, buddy. Totally excited." He gives Derek's thigh a light, friendly fist bump and spins on his heel, aiming himself toward the stairs. "How long will you be? Shouldn't take me long to pack my stuff."

"We're not quite that far," Derek chuckles, shaking his head. Derek Hale chuckles?? This whole morning is full of new and exciting discoveries. "I need a couple more things, but this was the hardest to get. Shouldn't be long now. Maybe a week?" He turns back to the part, which means Stiles doesn't have to worry about hiding his relief. 

"A week," he says.

Fantastic.

: : :

Stiles feels unmoored all day long. The computer won't work for him, he can't seem to count any higher than seven, and his heart just… can't calm down. Even Kris gets fed up with Stiles' aimless wandering and sends him on a lunch run, but that doesn't help either. By closing time, the mechanics seem fit to wring his neck. All except Derek, whom Stiles sees hide nor hair of at all during the day.

Something he doesn't realize until Derek comes striding into the living room, getting between Stiles and his Jessica Jones rewatch. Stiles doesn't dump his popcorn all over the floor, but it's a close thing. 

"Staying in tonight?" Derek asks, looking amused.

Stiles looks out the window, then down at faded Spider Man pajama pants, and finally back up at Derek. "I guess I forgot," he says, still feeling a little jittery. 

"Only four days and already he forgets." Derek flashes him a wounded look.

"I'll have to change?" 

Derek shakes his head. "I'm not gonna force you to go." He looks out the window and takes a deep breath. "I forgot how nice it was to ride by myself. I don't mind doing it again."

Stiles scrambles up from the couch, shoving his bowl of popcorn into Derek's chest. "I'll be right down, jerk."

It takes him longer than it should to slip on a pair of jeans and Derek's jacket, his coordination suffering along with everything else. He stops at the top of the stairs, helmet in hand, and takes a few deep breaths, willing his heart to calm down, for his brain to finally cooperate. There isn't much faith to go on, but the rides helped before, maybe they can again.

Stiles never realized just how much he'd missed it these past few nights, not until he slips on behind Derek and slides right up close, arms a snug circle around Derek's waist. He rests the helmet against Derek's nape while Derek revs the engine, and focuses on all the small things: the vibration settling into his spine, the wind whistling through the helmet, Derek giving Stiles' hand a squeeze. It's the last that's most calming, the drag of calluses over his fingers. Something so surprising, so human; that Derek can heal from electric shock and being carved open, but nothing so mundane as calluses. Stiles shivers and snugs closer, and then they're off, his mind finally, blissfully, falling blank.

They've been on half a dozen rides by now, give or take, and though there's been some overlap on the routes, Derek always picks a new place to stop and turn around. Sometimes it's nothing more than a remote gas station, others it's a hole in the wall restaurant where they eat dinner (or breakfast) in silence. 

Tonight it's an overlook, a stretch off land not too far off the highway that looks out onto the ocean and a small, private slice of beach. Even though they can't hear the crash of waves from this far up, it's still peaceful; the breeze light and warm, the stars so bright without the light pollution. Derek helps Stiles heave himself over the protective barrier and they both sit on the cliff, their legs dangling over the edge.

Stiles didn't know how easy it could be to sit in silence, not until he started this… _thing_ with Derek. Up here, with the warmth of Derek's arm pressed to his, Stiles feels relief for the first time all day. His whole body calm and quiet. It's so serene, it feels a little bit like time stops.

It becomes dizzying after awhile, looking down at the drop below, the blinking lights and the occasional rustling tree. Stiles feels himself leaning forward and forces himself back, lying down next to Derek so their thighs touch instead. It's easy enough then to count the stars and keep his mind busy, holding back the agitation from before.

Derek's presence helps, almost like serenity is contagious, but in a good way. They never spent any downtime together in Beacon Hills, so Stiles was never sure what Derek did to relax. And, back then, it wasn't much of a priority, with all the death and destruction. It's not like _Stiles_ ever had a chance to relax. 

It makes Stiles all the more grateful that this is where he ended up. Getting to see this other side of Derek, peeks of the person he could've been if he hadn't be struck by tragedy after tragedy, quells some of the guilt of letting him disappear so easily. As much as they could've used his help, Derek needed the distance more. 

Stiles never knew running away could lead to so many epiphanies. And in such a short time.

He loses all meaning of time, staring up at the stars. He doesn't even realize Derek's moved until his face appears above Stiles, blotting out the sky above. "Ready to go?" Derek murmurs into the quiet. 

Stiles muffles a noise of disappointment and thrusts his hands into the air. "Too relaxed. Carry me?" Derek arches his eyebrows, looking so much like his old self that Stiles chokes out a laugh. "Help me up, at least."

Derek does, his hands dry and warm around Stiles', tugging him up like Stiles is nothing more than a bag of feathers. He tries not to swoon, but the head rush is kind of wicked and the swirl of lights below don't help. At least Derek is there to stop him from going over the edge, his body firm and smelling like grease and sweat. "You good?" Derek rumbles after a minute, the vibration of it buzzing against the palm Stiles has braced on Derek's chest.

Stiles nods, but Derek gives him another minute, then is gently guiding Stiles over the fence with a firm grip on Stiles' hips. A small, graceful hop and Derek is over too, reaching for Stiles' hand. It feels weird and right at the same time; blunt, sturdy fingers folded between his slim, paler ones. Stiles stares down at it, letting himself be dragged across the short distance. They reach the bike and Derek seems reluctant to let go, but doesn't look Stiles in the eye, either. Reaches for the helmet instead to settle it on Stiles' head.

"'M not a kid," Stiles mutters, letting his head bobble as Derek zips up Stiles' jacket.

"I know," Derek says, the quirk of his lips turning shy and embarrassed. He may indeed know, but it's also clear he doesn't care about the steadying hand he uses to help Stiles onto the bike. Luckily for him, some new perspectives have shifted around in Stiles head in these last few minutes, and Stiles doesn't mind it, either.

The ride home feels too short and too long all at once, Stiles' brain sifting through the last week and a half and pretty much all of his interactions with Derek. Even without much talking going on, they've been getting to know each other. Becoming comfortable with each other in a way they might never could have in Beacon Hills. There, they knew the harsh sides of each other, angry and desperate and clawing for stability. Here, Stiles knows Derek isn't a morning person, that he has dimples (he _smiles!_ ), and that his loyalty is unwavering. 

He isn't sure what Derek has learned about Stiles, but he hopes at least a little bit of it is good.

Derek pulls up to Kris' front door and Stiles slides off the bike, one hand reaching out for balance. He shouldn't still feel woozy, he never has before, but Derek grabs for it anyway, pulling Stiles close enough for their knees to bump together. "I don't know what's wrong with me," Stiles says with a shake of his head. He closes his eyes to pull off the helmet, and then Derek's face is right there, his eyes curious, studying Stiles.

Stiles stares right back, taking in Derek's ridiculous eyebrows, the sharp slant of his nose. He squints at the precise line of Derek's facial hair and the flash of tongue poking out to lick his lips. Stiles stops with the eyes, dark now, shaded and endless, but he knows how green they are, how they crinkle when Derek smiles. 

He opens his mouth to say 'thank you for the ride,' feeling like he might never have said it before, but "I think I want to kiss you," comes out instead.

Derek takes a deep breath. "You think?"

"Yeah, well." Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets and kicks at a stone on the ground. "Y'know, you might not be good at it. That could change our entire friendship."

"Not good at it," Derek echoes faintly, adjusting his grip on Stiles' waist. 

"Yeah," Stiles says. "Maybe you use too much tongue, or you don't know how to breathe. Oh! Maybe you can't control your fangs and boom! Hole in the lip." He's babbling now, but he can't seem to make himself stop. Derek is so close and his shoulders are shaking, and his hand is somehow on Stiles' waist, so big and warm, fingertips digging in. It's sensory overload in all the best ways.

Derek's eyebrows rise. "You think I can't control my fangs?" 

"I dunno," Stiles says, skeptical. He reaches out and thumbs at Derek's lip, pulling open the lower one like he's going to inspect Derek's teeth. "I still haven't figured out how they work. Maybe with just the right amount of pressure…"

In one smooth move, Derek nips at Stiles thumb and reels him in with a hand at the small of his back. Stiles' small surprised sound gets lost between them, Derek's lips dry and warm, pressing against Stiles' own. He keeps it chaste and pulls away far too soon. Stiles' eyes have only just slipped closed and already there's air between them.

"Mmmm, more please," Stiles says, fingers sinking into wind-blown hair.

Derek huffs a laugh but obliges, applying the lightest bit of wet suction to Stiles' lower lip. It sets off tingles in all the best places, including Stiles' toes, and he hums, edging closer, eager for more. He gets the warm body of a motorcycle instead, keeping him from pressing against the wall of pure muscle that is Derek's body. He gives half a thought to slinging his leg over and straddling Derek, but Derek pulls away, hands cradling Stiles' head, and frowns. 

"Don't even think about it," he says, thumbs pressing into Stiles' skull.

It's hard not to melt on the spot. "You can't possibly know what I was thinking."

Derek arches one thick brown and presses a little harder. 

Stiles' knees threaten to buckle. "Nnnnnn'kay, fine. Maybe you do." He licks his lips and struggles to keep his eyes focused. His brain, too. Stiles had no idea he had a thing for Derek's hands until they were cradling his head, big and warm and steady. Perfectly placed to draw Stiles close for another kiss.

It's something of a point of pride that Stiles' imagination tends to get the best of him; from zombies to making out with Lydia to his dad's premature demise, Stiles has dreamt of it all. But never once did he think about what it would be like to kiss Derek, not even in the abstract. Wild monkey sex? Sure. Falling prey to sex pollen? What self-respecting fanboy with an AO3 account hasn't? Darker dreams with a hint of bestiality? Weeeeell…

Kissing though. That implies intent. A relationship, of sorts. A prelude. None of which Stiles ever gave one second of thought to. In no reality would Derek ever sex up Stiles without the fate of the world hanging in the balance. And world-saving sex doesn't require kissing.

Now that it's happening, Stiles is glad he never thought to imagine this. It means his overactive mind can focus on what's happening instead of cataloging the differences. He can thumb at Derek's beard and suck on his lower lip. Can trace Derek's teeth with his tongue and memorize all the quiet little noises he makes. Best of all, Stiles can sag into the lean bulk of Derek's body and trust that Derek can take the weight, because hoooo boy, Stiles' knees are definitely _not_ up to the task right now. Not with the way Derek keeps teasing at Stiles' lips with his tongue. 

Stiles has never regretted anything more than having to pull away, but his lungs aren't supernatural and the urge to climb Derek like a tree just keeps getting stronger. Derek doesn't let him go very far, fingers sliding from Stiles' head to his neck, gripping tight to the leather jacket. _Derek's_ jacket. A shiver rolls through Stiles, from head to toe, and Stiles looks at Derek — eye to eye now, which feels weird, but right — at a loss for words.

"I can't believe I broke you," Derek says, his lips curving into a slow, fond smile. It's only an inch away, and starting to look smug, so Stiles leans forward, hand on Derek's thighs, and bites it.

"M'not broken," Stiles murmurs, trying to nuzzle Derek's soft beard while not _looking_ like he's nuzzling. It's a fine line.

Derek tilts his head to the side and lets his hands drop to Stiles' waist, giving it a firm squeeze. "No, you're definitely not broken."

Stiles hums in agreement, trailing kisses along Derek's jaw and down his throat, ending with the careful scrape of teeth over Derek's pulse. A full body shudder makes Stiles grin and do it again. Derek's guiding Stiles' head up before he can do it a third time.

"I think it's time to go upstairs," Stiles sighs, stroking his thumb along Derek's neck.

Derek mirrors the gesture, looking like he's trying to fight back a frown. "Yeah, it's getting late."

Stiles groans and scuffs some gravel at Derek's boots. "I _knew_ there was a bit of the self-sacrificing asshole in there somewhere." He pulls himself from Derek's grip in slow, deliberate movements, and takes a step toward the front door. "Last one upstairs doesn't get to come," he says, eyebrows waggling.

Having to take care of the motorcycle means that Stiles gets upstairs first, of course. Which gives him an extra ten seconds to gather up his dirty clothes and shove them in the closet. He's staring at the bed, wondering how he wants to pose himself, when he hears Derek thudding up the stairs. He flails at himself, giddy and nervous, and manages half a spin before Derek catches him by the wrist, holding him in place.

"How is that still hot?" Stiles wonders, trying not to lean into the solid wall of heat at his back. His head drops forward as he sucks in a breath and Derek's mouth is there, slick and warm, his teeth dull, dragging across Stiles' nape.

"This used to drive me so crazy," Derek says between sucking kisses, voice hoarse.

"What did?" Stiles rasps, attempting to hold back a shudder.

"Your neck," Derek explains. "It's so long and pale. It seemed like a beacon, telling the whole world how vulnerable you were. Where they could do the most damage." His hands move up to Stiles' shoulders and pull off the jacket, the plaid shirt underneath, exposing more skin.

Stiles leans into the pressure of Derek's mouth. "Guess I should've picked up Isaac's scarf fetish?"

Derek growls, his teeth digging into the tendon, blunt and unyielding. 

"Okay, okay!" Stiles yelps, hand coming up to fist in Derek's hair. "No scarves. Got it." He translates the wet pass of Derek's tongue as forgiveness and turns a slow circle in Derek's grip, looping his arms around Derek's neck once they're face to face. "Hi," he says, soft and flirty, staring into Derek's dark eyes. "I missed you."

Derek rolls his eyes, but his lips are fighting a grin. "It was only ten seconds."

"I was talking about your mouth. My mouth missed your mo— mmph!" This kiss isn't anything like from two minutes ago. Where those were sweet, almost chaste, like an introduction, this one is hot and demanding. Derek staking his claim on Stiles' personal space and letting Stiles do the same. It's a delicious give and take that gives Stiles the best kind of ideas.

Stiles is so focused on everywhere he and Derek touch, he doesn't notice himself moving until the backs of his legs bump against the bed. And then Derek is following him down, one arm wrapped around Stiles' waist, the other bracing their weight in a controlled fall. 

"God, that's so hot," Stiles mumbles, eyeing the stretch of material around Derek's bicep. Derek smirks down at him, arranging himself in between Stiles legs with infinite care. Once he's happy, he settles his weight, using his forearms to cage Stiles in. Not that Stiles had any intention of going anywhere. 

There is one thing he wants to change though, before they get too comfortable.

"Where do you stand on shirtlessness?" he says, propping himself up on his elbows, close enough to Derek for their noses to bump. 

Derek hums, pretending to think about it. "I could be persuaded."

"Excellent." With his tongue between his teeth, Stiles gets one hand on Derek's waist, where his shirt has ridden up, and gives the skin a light scratch. Derek shudders, eyes going dark, and dips in for a kiss, as shallow and teasing as Stiles' fingernails are. Delighted, Stiles lets Derek bear him back down to the bed and gets his other hand on Derek's back, palms skating across warm skin to push up his shirt. He pauses at Derek's shoulders, imagining he can feel the triskele, and traces lopsided circles with his fingertips until Derek growls and nips at Stiles' mouth. Stiles bursts out laughing, fists his hands in Derek's henley, and pulls it over his head.

"That never gets old," Stiles says, drinking in all that smooth skin and sleek muscle. It wasn't too long ago that Derek waxed (or maybe shaved? Stiles never asked) his chest, which Stiles thought was a waste of time, objectively speaking. Now, Derek is lightly furred across his chest, whorls of dark hair that Stiles explores first with his knuckles, then his palms, skimming them over Derek's pecs and along his abs. He uses fingernails on Derek's happy trail, dragging them against the grain, slow and steady, until Derek's belly trembles and he huffs out a laugh.

"Your turn," Derek says, nudging his nose against Stiles' cheek until Stiles tilts up his face, enough for Derek to kiss him. It feels so good, being pinned by Derek's solid weight, that Stiles wraps his arms and legs around Derek's body and sinks into it, every touch and sound a new delight for him to examine later, when he doesn't have Derek's dick pressed up against his own.

Warm fingers sweep along Stiles' waist, pushing at his t-shirt. It tickles at first, Derek's touch light, but once he finds skin, he palms wide swaths of it, firm and insistent. Stiles can't get enough of it, arching into it, grumbling if Derek misses a spot. What's worse is the loss of Derek's weight, the rush of cool air over Stiles' heated skin, and the few moments of lost contact as Derek shoves Stiles' shirt up and off. 

There are a few seconds of shame then, where Stiles wants to curl into himself, maybe kiss Derek to distract him from the pale expanse of Stiles' chest, but Derek folds their fingers together, forearms pressing into the bed, on either side of Stiles' head, effectively pinning Stiles in place so Derek can look his fill. The weight of his gaze is intoxicating, and Stiles gasps as Derek leans down to suck a bruise into Stiles' collar bone. 

From there, Derek moves to Stiles' ribs, his hands huge on Stiles' waist. After that bruise, it's a slick trail of fire to Stiles' belly, the drag of teeth over his happy trail, the faint scratch of claws curling into the waistband of his jeans. All the while, his dick pushes at his fly, thick and obvious. Derek just breathing on it kinda makes Stiles want to go off, but then Derek looks up, his eyes almost black in the dim light, and Stiles can't breathe for how beautiful Derek is. 

"Can I?" Derek asks, toying with the button of Stiles jeans.

"I'm pretty sure I'll die if you don't," Stiles says, aiming for playful. 

"Well." Derek licks his lips and swallows, a soft noise that Stiles can hear. "We wouldn't want that." He flicks open the button and pulls down the zip, his eyes never leaving Stiles'. A second after that, human nails are scraping over Stiles' hips and down his thighs as Derek pulls off Stiles' jeans and underwear in one fell swoop. Stiles squirms and shakes under Derek's deliberate regard, flushing hot and cold at the same time.

"Is it cold in here, or am I happy to see you?" Stiles jokes, eyes flicking from his nipples to Derek's face and back, fingers twisted in the sheets to keep from covering himself up.

Derek shuffles around until warm palms land on Stiles' knees, slide along his thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It helps to chase away the chill, as does the body heat Derek throws off, hunched over Stiles the way he is. It should probably be hot, a little bit, the way he can't stop staring at Stiles' dick, but Stiles' mind doesn't always work that way, and he has to fight to keep it from running down all the million rabbit holes that lead to the same place: there is no way someone like Derek would ever want a puny wreck like Stiles.

Stiles is so busy keeping himself away from those thoughts, it's almost a shock when his dick is suddenly engulfed in the slick warmth of Derek's mouth. "Oh my _fuuuuck_ ," he moans, head thrown back. The only thing preventing him from levitating off the bed is Derek's hands on his thighs. But even that isn't enough to keep Stiles still when Derek pulls off in one slow, smooth slide, throwing in an extra bit of suction at the tip. Stiles glances down the length of his body, feeling drunk. Derek's proud smirk has to be a fever dream, right? 

"I knew that would shut you up," Derek says, his breath puffing over Stiles' throbbing dick. 

"Nobody likes a smug wolf," Stiles snarks back, struggling for air.

"Says you." Derek follows that up with a thorough lick along the length of Stiles' cock, getting it wet before he swallows it back down again.

Stiles is a healthy seventeen year old boy with an even healthier libido. To say he's thought about what a blow job would feel like would be a bit of an understatement. What he couldn't begin to imagine was Derek's deliberation, his supernatural stamina and stubborn single-mindedness working together to suck out Stiles' brain through his dick. Derek's mouth and pure determination are the worst best thing to happen to Stiles in the history of the universe. It feels so good, the wet noises Derek make sound so filthy, that Stiles has to get his hands in Derek's hair and _pull him off_. He spares a thought, in between panting breaths, to be in awe that Derek let himself be moved like that. 

"I'm gonna come," Stiles gasps, looking down at Derek's shadowed eyes. 

Derek dips down and bites at Stiles' thigh. "That's the idea?" 

"No, I mean." He blows out a breath and blinks the sweat from his eyes. "As soon as you get your mouth back on me, I'm gonna come." He refuses to spell out how embarrassing that'll be.

A lone finger traces along the prominent vein in Stiles' dick, the hint of claw an overwhelming tease. "Maybe I want you to."

The finger switches to a thumb, the pad soft and slick, rubbing along the base of Stiles' cock, down along the seam of his balls, and back up again. Stiles' skin feels too small for his body as he whines through clenched teeth, fingers twisting harder into Derek's hair. "Maybe I don't wanna be a minute man," Stiles wheezes, his whole body trembling, desperate for Derek's touch.

Derek sighs, pushing into Stiles' grip. "Just come for me Stiles. I promise we'll do it again." 

Stiles doesn't even need Derek's whole mouth to get there; just the tip of his tongue and the warm of this fingers is enough. As a bonus, he's too busy thinking about the next time to be embarrassed as Derek jacks him through it, come and spit and sweat mixing together to make a mess on Stiles' belly. Stiles groans and shakes, hands fisting in Derek's hair impossibly tight until the last few spurts, then Derek's mouth is back, sucking Stiles' dick clean, and all of Stiles' bones liquefy at once. 

It takes a while for Stiles to come back to himself. For his hands to relax and slide from Derek's head to the bed. For his eyes to focus and his lungs to work. By the time his heart normalizes and his brain resets, Derek is nuzzling his way back up Stiles' body, paying particular attention to Stiles hips and nipples and collar bone. It's the kind of mind-melting tenderness Stiles never could've imagined sex being about, and he shoves his fingers back in Derek's hair, gentle this time, head tipped back to give Derek better access to his neck. 

He squirms under the warm suction of Derek's mouth, legs restless, and gasps, "You still have your pants on!" It doesn't take much force to tug Derek's head up, but all of Stiles' indignation flies out the window now that he can see Derek's face. The only light in the room is the weak moonlight, but it's enough for Stiles to take in Derek's slick, red mouth, his wide pupils, and his wild hair. Stiles wriggles again, feeling powerful for the first time, that he made Derek look like _this_ and didn't even have to do any work. His gut throbs and he pulls Derek into a kiss. Another twitch of his leg and Stiles pulls him up again, grinning at the dazed look in Derek's eyes. 

"Pants, buddy. Off off off." He drags his toes up and down Derek's legs for emphasis.

"Oh my god," Derek sighs with a roll of his eyes. He's biting back a smile though, and rising up on his knees to make a show of opening his jeans, pushing them and his boxer briefs past his hips with a cute little shimmy. Stiles watches his dick emerge with rapt attention, eyes glued to the shiny pink head. With his jeans at his knees, Derek gives himself a few slow pumps, working the foreskin back and forth until Stiles' mouth waters, eager to explore every last inch with his tongue. 

After half a dozen or so strokes, Derek drops to the side and rolls onto his ass, shoving off his jeans in a whirlwind of limbs. It's the least ungraceful Stiles has ever seen Derek, but he doesn't have time to tease him about it; a second later, Derek is back, covering Stiles' body with his own, head to toe. 

All that skin is a lot to take in at once, and Derek doesn't make it easier by slotting their fingers together and stretching Stiles' arms out above his head, effectively pinning him in place so Derek can kiss him until Stiles can't breathe. 

"You're gonna kill me," he gasps up at the ceiling, angling his head to the side as Derek drags his fangs along Stiles' jaw. 

"They don't call it ' _la petite mort_ ' for nothing," Derek muses, tongue laving over the hollow of Stiles' throat. 

Stiles' squeezes Derek's hands and rolls his hips, earning himself a rumbling groan. "You really need to let me get my mouth on you."

Derek hums and thrusts his hips in return, a dirty little slide that smears through the mess on Stiles' belly and sparks an interest in Stiles' dick. "I don't know if I'm ready for that yet," he says into the skin behind Stiles' ear, blunt teeth closing over one lobe.

Stiles shivers and squirms, seeking friction for his dick. "But I wanna know what my mouth is capable of." It comes out as more of a whine than he meant to.

The slick suction on his neck stops and Stiles is once again staring into Derek's endless pupils. "I know _exactly_ what your mouth is capable of. I want to enjoy this before you ruin me."

"Wha—" Derek's kissing him again, slow and thorough. Devastating. When Derek pulls away, it takes several long blinks for Stiles' brain to come back online, for Derek's smug face to come into focus. "I hate you," Stiles says, giddy.

Derek grins. "Me, too."

There isn't too much talking after that. Well, not coherent conversation anyway. Once Derek starts moving his hips with intent, it's more grunting and moaning and cussing. Derek's teeth sinking into Stiles' throat and the bones in their fingers grinding together as they squeeze and squeeze. Soon, the sweat starts to build up and everything slides together easier, Stiles' dick fattening up and occasionally bumping up against Derek's to make him gasp and shake. 

Derek is too intent on chasing his orgasm to find a rhythm, and Stiles is too busy trying to keep up to worry about it. It means their noses bumping together, Stiles' teeth catching on Derek's chin. In between the moans and growled curses, Derek lets out a frustrated grunt and lets go of Stiles' hand to get a grip on Stiles' thigh, firm enough to leave bruises. Stiles yelps, amazed how that one adjustment changes everything. 

He wraps his free arm around Derek's neck, pulling him down. "Please Derek," he begs, panting. "Please come. I want it." 

"Fuck, _fuck_ ," Derek whimpers, head dropped low enough that Stiles can't see his face. He can feel it in Derek's body though, the split-second freeze, the sticky spread of warmth on his skin, the ragged thrusts of Derek's hips smearing it every-damn-where. Stiles stares up at the ceiling, his smile feeling too big for his face.

Eventually, Derek stills, panting into Stiles' neck. Stiles pets his hair, the sweaty line of his back. He wants to come again, but being pinned down by Derek's weight is nice, too. Grounding. Reassuring. 

The silence is a lot to deal with, though. Stiles hadn't realized how loud they were until they stopped. It feels like a vacuum now, the absence of sound itself roaring in Stiles' ears. He licks his lips and says, "Were you trying to stake a claim on me?"

Derek's shoulders bounce around a huff of laughter and pointy teeth nip at Stiles' collar bone. "I promise you we don't work that way."

"I think I'd be okay if you did," Stiles hums, fingers tracing random patterns in the small of Derek's back.

With a gusty sigh, Derek falls to the side, far enough that Stiles can breathe, but still mostly plastered to Stiles' body. It's almost too warm to be sharing so much space, but Stiles likes how Derek keeps sucking kisses into his skin. The lazy way his fingers drag through the mess of their come and sweat does interesting things to his gut, too. Especially when that sticky hand closes around Stiles' dick and gives it a firm tug. 

Stiles chokes on a groan, low in his throat, and arches into it, fingers twisted in the sheets now that it's too awkward to hold onto Derek. It doesn't last as long as the first, but he feels just as spent, like he's been cleansed inside and out. Had he known orgasming with other people would leave him feeling this empty, he think he might've spent less time running after werewolves. 

Then again, maybe not.

He drops his head to the side and meets Derek's eyes, grabs his hand and brings it up to press a kiss to his palm. Stiles remembers a second too late what that hand's been doing and exaggerates his disgust at the salt on his tongue. Derek snorts, loud and rough, and rolls up onto his forearm, angling in for a kiss. It's just as devastating now as it was when they were downstairs, and Stiles hangs on to Derek's wrist until they come up for air.

"Human lungs," Stiles gasps, giving Derek's wrist a squeeze. 

Derek nuzzles Stiles' cheek, the beard a delicious rasp against Stiles' skin. "We'll work on your endurance."

For that, Derek gets a smack on his bare ass.

: : :

After their clean-up, Derek pulls on his boxer briefs so Stiles does too, and they get themselves situated in the bed, with Derek between Stiles and the door. Even though it's unnecessary, it's also cute, sweet, and Stiles lets it go in favor of trading more wet, lazy kisses. Derek seems like he could go on forever, but Stiles' eyes get to the point where they refuse to stay open anymore and the kissing is too much effort.

"I'm so disappointed in myself," Stiles mumbles, rolling over in the circle of Derek's arms. 

Derek drags his teeth down the length of Stiles' nape. "So am I."

Stiles cocks his leg. "I still have enough energy to kick you."

"I know you do." He skims his palm along Stiles' thigh, pulling the leg back to slot it in between his own. Stiles thinks he should feel suffocated, being surrounded like this, but mostly he just feels safe. For the first time in a long time, he takes a deep breath in, lets it go, and falls right to sleep.

: : :

: : :

It's nothing in particular that rouses Stiles. At least he doesn't think it is. The shop isn't open yet; the sun is barely even up. He should probably be hot, blanketed by half of Derek's body, but he only feels cozy.

He rolls onto his side and takes in Derek, the feathery hair at his temple and the wrinkles at the corner of his eye. With his thumb he strokes an eyebrow, then the beard along Derek's jaw. Derek doesn't react to anything until Stiles thumbs at the fan of his lashes, an irresistible dark smudge against Derek's tanned cheek. It earns Stiles the hint of a smile, legs shifting under the blanket. A second later, strong fingers wrap around his wrist and dry lips brush a kiss across his knuckles. A tingly warmth washes over Stiles' body, inducing equal parts bliss and shame. It's too much, too soon, and he wriggles out from underneath Derek's weight, fighting to keep his breathing steady.

Stiles uses the scratch of the drywall at his back to ground him and draws in his knees, elbows propped against them so he can drop his head in his hands. His fingers twist his hair into knots while he counts his breaths; in for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four. Square breathing, his therapist called it. It wasn't much help when Stiles was younger, but he gets its usefulness now. Can spot the warning signs better, thanks to experience.

He almost forgets he's alone, but then Derek sits up too, back against the wall, maintaining a careful distance between their bodies. Stiles ignores him for another handful of cycles, until he's sure his body won't betray him. 

"Sorry 'bout that," Stiles croaks out, head tipped back against the wall. He drags his hands down his face and over his mouth, searching for something not embarrassing to say. "Leave it to me to ruin the morning after."

"You didn't," Derek says immediately. Stiles sees a hand come out, but Derek drops it to the bed before he makes contact, right next to Stiles' hip. Feeling guilty anyway, Stiles takes it in between both of his and folds their fingers together. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want, but if it's anything I did…" He trails off and Stiles spares him a wry smile, a squeeze of his fingers.

"At the risk of inflating your ego, you were amazing. It is most definitely not you." He chances a glance at Derek's face and is relieved to see the spark of awe there, the genuine thrill hiding behind the messy fall of his hair. Stiles gets a brief flash of the night before, what it felt like to wreck that hair, and still can't quite believe it happened, even with the proof right in front of him. And on him. And _around_ him.

Derek shakes their joined hands, bringing Stiles' attention back to the present. "You don't have to tell me, but if you want to…" He sketches a tiny shrug, looking so earnest and hopeful, it makes it hard for Stiles to breath. 

The problem is, he has no idea how to explain all the things going through his head: how unworthy he is to wake up feeling so happy, so _wanted_ , after all he's done, the trouble he's in. By all rights, Stiles should be in jail right now, figuring out lawyer stuff, making plea deals and serving his sentence. He should be ashamed of himself, driven into hiding like he's been, not enjoying motorcycle rides and warm, sweet kisses.

But he looks at Derek, with his fluffy hair and the pillow crease in his cheek, his warm sleepy eyes and his lazy smile, and a part of him wants to cry. It's not the panic from before, but it's not quite relief, either. It's that intangible safety he felt last night, the need to lay down his burdens and rest, mentally and emotionally, that spills over now. There's still a part of him that doesn't want to do this to Derek, to drag him back in again, when he's doing so well having gotten out. But Stiles is tired, weary down to his bones, and Derek isn't as fragile as he used to be. Smaller, without the alpha powers, but stronger somehow. More sure of himself and his place in the world. 

Decision made, Stiles sighs and lets a tear fall. Careful to disconnect himself from Derek and every place they touch, Stiles pulls his arms and legs close, making himself as small as possible. With his head resting on his forearms, eyes focused on Derek's pulse, he talks.

"So there was this guy, Donovan…"

: : :

For all that Stiles is designed to run his mouth until his voice gives out, it takes him quite a while to get through the whole sordid tale, though his habit of going off on long, meandering tangents doesn't help. It seems ridiculous how much there is to cover, considering Derek hasn't been gone that long, but Stiles wants to cover everything.

Derek is patient through all of it, holding Stiles' hand, only asking questions for clarification, never rendering any kind of judgment, either with his face or tone of voice. It's everything Stiles could want and nothing that he deserves. 

"So that's what you've missed," Stiles says, throwing in a weird little flourish with his free hand. His throat feels raw and the sun is fully up, pouring through the window to warm Stiles' skin. He takes a deep breath and collapses on himself, wrenches his hand free from Derek's grip to wrap his arms around his knees and sob, once. He curses into the safe, dark space he's created for himself, flinching under the weight of a hand on his back. 

"I'm so sorry," Derek says, low and soothing. He drags his hand down Stiles' spine and back up again, like he's gentling a spooked animal. Part of Stiles wants to lean into it, to topple over into Derek's lap and never leave. But another part of him, the one that's been holding his family together since the death of his mother, doesn't know how to let himself be so openly vulnerable. It's a physical pain, etched deep into Stiles' bones, almost worse than a panic attack.

He can let Derek pet him, though. The light scratch of dry skin sends little tingles everywhere, down to Stiles' toes and up into his scalp. Like those ASMR videos Stiles' likes, but in 3-D surround sound. Makes it hard for him to devolve into a sobbing mess, at least.

"Me too," Stiles says with a wet sniff. He sits like that until it gets too hot, until it's more carbon dioxide than oxygen, and turns his head to the side to study Derek. From his ridiculous, soft bed head down to his chest hair and dusky pink nipples. His belly button looks like something Stiles would want to lick, followed by the happy trail disappearing under the edge of the sheet. With the whole story out, Stiles feels…not lighter, not free. The stress is still there, but he feels empty, maybe. Less full, at least, now that someone's sharing the load. He drags his gaze back up the length of Derek's body to meet his eyes and blurts out, "How the fuck did I even end up here?"

Derek gusts out a breath and says, "Well, I mean—" Stiles flails into action, launching himself into Derek's lap to slap a hand over his mouth. He leans in close, the tips of their noses touching, to make sure the only thing Derek can see is Stiles' narrowed eyes. 

"If you even think of blaming yourself, I will give you a titty twister to end all titty twisters, I swear to _god_."

Derek snorts and gently peels Stiles' hand from his face. "I wouldn't be wrong," he says, quiet.

Stiles slumps and links their fingers together, giving Derek's hand a squeeze. "Not every supernatural disaster is your fault, Derek."

"But you wouldn't be involved if Scott wasn't a werewolf. And Scott wouldn't be a werewolf if…Peter hadn't happened. And Peter wouldn't have happened if I—" He swallows, hard, eyes darting down to their hands and back. "If Kate hadn't happened."

"Maybe," Stiles says with a shrug. "Maybe Scott was always fated to be a werewolf and this is just one of the million ways it would've happened. But." He uses his free hand to lift Derek's chin, waiting until Derek looks him in the eye. "Kate Argent was a psychopathic bitch. What she did was _not_ your fault." He tweaks Derek's nose after he's done, both to punctuate his point and to get a smile, hopefully.

It's tiny, but Derek obliges, snapping his teeth at Stiles' fingertips as his hand drops. "But then Donovan isn't your fault, either. You didn't murder him, it was an accident. Anyone would've been fighting like hell to get away, Stiles. _Anyone_."

Stiles blows out a breath and scrubs both hands through his hair. "On some level, I swear I know that, and even believe it. It's my dad that I'm worried about. He may know about — and sorta believe in — the supernatural, but the trust is still fragile."

"There is no way your father would believe you're a murderer."

"Scott did."

Derek's lips quirk. "I told you in the beginning, he was kind of an idiot."

"Yeah," Stiles agrees, "But he's been _my_ idiot."

A weak tug is all it takes to get Stiles falling into Derek's ridiculous chest. It's hard to be subtle about rubbing his cheek against the chest hair, but Stiles thinks he manages. At least until Derek's chest starts to bounce with silent amusement.

"I'll support whatever you decided to do," Derek says, his voice a delicious rumble in Stiles' ear. 

"Even if it means stealing your money?"

Derek gives Stiles' spine a light scratch. "It's not stealing if I left it there for you, if you needed it."

"Gotta say, not your brightest plan, leaving that much cash in an abandoned building." Stiles lets his hand wander up and down Derek's side, looking for the places he's most ticklish. "You're lucky Homeless Herb didn't find it first."

With one hand in Stiles' hair, Derek lifts Stiles' head so that he can look into Stiles' eyes, warm and fond. It's a little unnerving yet, but Stiles figures he'll get used to it eventually. Hopefully.

"I had faith," Derek says, slow and careful. "That you would get nosy and show up at some point."

Stiles rolls his eyes and shakes himself free of Derek's grip. "You're such an asshole."

"You like it though," Derek murmurs, taking Stiles' face in his hands to pull him in for a kiss. He disengages before it can heat up, thumbs stroking over Stiles' cheeks. "Whatever you decide to do, can you promise me one thing?"

Stiles' eyelids droop, his attention focused on Derek's mouth for a few long seconds. "What'll you give me if I do?"

"All of my support with whatever you choose?"

Stiles rolls his eyes and pinches Derek's side. "What's the ask, wolf boy?"

Derek turns serious, his eyebrows stern. "Make sure running away is what you _really_ want. It's not as easy as it seems, abandoning everything you know. Trying to build a whole new life all by yourself."

"Yeah," Stiles says, voice hoarse. "I promise, I'll think about it."

: : :

Stiles does not, in fact, think about it.

Well, that's not entirely fair. He thinks about it for seconds at a time, until the thought of never seeing his dad again starts to hurt, until his lungs itch and his heart races, but then he tunes back in to Kris' inventory or the story Dom is in the middle of and he can breathe easy again. 

The night rides with Derek continue, just with more secluded make outs and sex. Derek never makes Stiles talk about anything again, which Stiles appreciates, but a small part of him almost wishes Derek would push the issue, too. He's only ever challenged Stiles, usually to both their benefits, so it feels weird that he's willing to let it go now. Stiles should maybe be more worried about that, but in his defense, all the awesome sex is _pret-ty_ distracting.

Actually, if Stiles is honest with himself, it isn't just the sex that's awesome. Seeing this whole softer side of Derek is kind of mind-blowing. Stiles tries not to stare, but he can't help being fascinated by the crinkles at the corners of Derek's eyes, or the flash of bunny teeth when he smiles. There were hints, before, of Derek's humor, but the full blown weight of it is fascinating. Stiles even feels flashes of pride, the rare times that Derek comes up with a better one-liner than Stiles. 

It occurs to Stiles that this is what Derek might've been like had it not been for a half dozen meddling kids crash-banging into his life, thinking they knew better than him, but every time Stiles tries to point it out, to maybe even go so far as apologize, Derek reels him in for a kiss, his warm hands palming as much skin as possible. It's a great distraction, as distractions go. Stiles doesn't bother fighting it.

: : :

"How do you feel about going back to my place tonight?"

Stiles is almost too busy chewing on his burger to hear the question; the ambient noise from the all-night diner doesn't help. But he knows enough to put down his food, swallow what's in his mouth, and rewind the last ten seconds in his head.

For all that they've done and everywhere they've been the last two weeks, never once has Derek asked, or even hinted that he wanted to bring Stiles home. Stiles might've thought about asking for an invite, but then he'd remember all the awful times he'd pushed Derek before — with Laura's body, with Danny, _Peter_ — and decided he couldn't do that anymore. That if they were going to have whatever relationship they're having, short though it will probably be, he would have to give Derek the space for his own choices. The same space Derek has given Stiles to make his. 

Sure, Stiles was curious. Given the history of Derek's living spaces, Stiles had to hope Derek was still trending in the right direction. But that was all he had: hope. And a new-found patience his dad could be proud of. 

( _Not thinking about dad, not thinking about dad._ )

He studies Derek in the washed out light of the diner; the quiet hunch of his shoulders and the dark sweep of his lashes. Derek sounded nonchalant, asking the question, but he looks almost as fragile as that night in the pool, when Stiles uttered the word abomination because Derek obviously couldn't. Stiles heart cracks a little and he nudges Derek's boot. 

"Only if you want me to," he says, solemn. 

Derek rolls his shoulders, his lips curving into a small, pleased grin. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want you to."

Stiles blinks down at his plate, hiding his own smile. "Just checking."

: : :

Stiles should've predicted that Derek's place would be in the middle of the woods; he's never been one to live among the commoners. What he couldn't have foreseen was the space Derek carved out for himself. While Derek secures his bike in the garage, Stiles ambles out to the front of the house, hands in his pockets to take it all in.

It's not a large house, by any means, not that Derek needs one, or was ever one for space (except for the train depot). But it's not tiny either, the peak of the house rising two storeys high, the cabin's logs washed pale in the moonlight. It seems sturdy, for a cabin, and Stiles wonders if Derek built it from scratch, if he had to fix it up. If he had to clear some trees away from the house, or if the obvious dividing line between yard and forest was already there. He can imagine, too, what it would look like with all the lights lit up inside, each window glowing golden in the night. 

Stiles can't wait to get inside and see the rest of it. The parts that mean something. 

Too busy taking in the fresh air and the few details the moonlight exposes, Stiles doesn't notice Derek's approach until warm fingers are slotting between his, guiding him toward the door. 

Inside is even better, the wood interior warm and welcoming right from the jump. There's a coat rack in the corner, to the left of the door, and a pile of shoes where Derek toes out of his boots. Stiles follows suit, hand still in Derek's grasp, and lets himself be led forward, eyes jumping from point to point, trying to drink in everything at once. 

It's a pretty basic open plan, with most of the space taken up by a den, the rest of it split between the kitchen and a small, notched-out dining nook. It's small without being suffocating. A real estate agent would probably call it cozy, to make it sound more inviting, but Stiles is already in love, feeling like he's in a giant hug, surrounded by plaid blankets and the plush area rug, an enormous sofa and overstuffed throw pillows. 

The kitchen faces the east, and Stiles can easily imagine what it must look like in the morning; bright, buttery sunlight flooding the bank of windows above the sink, turning everything to gold. Derek shuffling around, sleepy-eyed, hair mussed, brewing his coffee or scrambling some eggs. Escaping to the breakfast nook when the sunlight gets to be too much. 

Beyond the nook, Stiles can make out slats of moonlight down a short hall, two of them coming from the right, that he assumes leads to more rooms of some sort, but his eyes follow the exposed brick wall instead, up toward a spindled railing that hints at a loft beyond. Stiles looks for a staircase, but doesn't see one and finds himself disappointed. 

"What do you think?" Derek asks, while Stiles turns a couple more slow circles, just to make sure he didn't miss anything. 

He stops with his eyes still on the loft, for no real reason. "I think I love it," Stiles says, hesitant. "But," he points to the railing with their joined hands. "Is that just for show or what?"

Derek smirks, gives Stiles' fingers a squeeze, and takes a step forward, letting go. Stiles can see it before it happens: Derek springing up from a crouch, making the leap with ease. He clears the railing with inches to spare and still has enough room to do a twisty little flip, landing so that he faces Stiles, his grin blinding even in the moonlight. 

Stiles claps his hands and rubs his palms together. "Okay! As soon as you teach me that, I'll be right up."

Derek rolls his eyes, but he's laughing, shoulders shaking with it. "There's stairs," he say. "Behind the wall. Take a few steps to your right and you'll see them."

Stiles glares up at him, but does as he's told. Sure enough, there's a short set of stairs leading up. Stiles should be annoyed, probably, but he also enjoys a good call-back. "Good to know you're still allergic to stairs," he says, fingers trailing along the brick. 

Derek meets him at the landing, arms sliding around Stiles' waist like they belong there, and ducks in to bite at Stiles' neck. His playful growl is nothing Stiles ever could've imagined, but it feels good against his skin. He sinks his fingers into Derek's thick hair and holds him there, groaning as the bite morphs into slick suction. Once Derek is happy enough with the mark he's leaving, he trails hot kisses up Stiles' neck and behind his ear, noses along Stiles' jaw and across his cheek, until he reaches Stiles' mouth. 

For all that they've been messing around, making out and trading blow jobs, exploring every part of each other with fingers and mouths, this kiss, the way Derek hold Stiles, feels different from before. The sweep of his tongue more demanding, his clutching fingers more possessive. Stiles feels like he's being consumed, in the best way possible, and he can't help but wonder what's changed, other than the location.

Overwhelmed and out of breath, Stiles leans away, gasping and wide-eyed. Derek looks just as bewildered, his shadowed eyes dark and endless. Stiles kisses him once, high up on his cheek, and slips out of Derek's grasp, to take in the loft. 

It's long and wide and spacious, seeming to run the width of the house, and whatever length there is that Stiles could only guess at before. It almost feels like a second apartment, with enough room for a desk, several overflowing bookcases, and a large, overstuffed arm chair. It feels as cozy as the living room did, though with less pillows and blankets here. 

But what really draws Stiles' eye is the giant bed in the back, surrounded by windows. It looks enormous in the moonlight, the expanse of comforter bright and endless. It's a sturdy, unassuming frame, but the sheer size of it means there's room for two people with plenty to spare. 

"I like to spread out," Derek says, low, right into Stiles' ear. It snaps Stiles out of his daze, and he finds himself standing at the bed, gripping the footboard. Derek's hand is warm on Stiles' belly, fingertips tracing his happy trail. 

Stiles clears his throat and leans into Derek's body. "You should probably show me," he says, feeling brave, a little giddy. "Y'know, for science."

Derek hums. "If it's for science…" He presses a kiss to the skin behind Stiles' ear and steps away, arms up, reaching for the back of his henley. Stiles has seen this a dozen times before, but it never gets old; the flex and release of muscles under smooth skin. The slow reveal of the triskele. Derek's mussed hair and the hungry glint in his eyes. How careless he is, tossing away the shirt. Everything is amplified now, drenched in moonlight like they've never been before. Stiles might be drooling; he swipes at his mouth, just in case.

Hands on his hips, Derek gives Stiles an expectant look. It takes a few seconds for Stiles to realize it, though. To notice the amused quirk of Derek's eyebrows. "What?" Stiles asks with a little flail, one hand landing on the bed to prevent him from falling backward. 

Derek tips his head to the side, amused. "Your turn, yeah?"

Stiles looks down at himself and huffs a laugh. "Yeah, okay. Sure." He shrugs out of Derek's jacket and his plaid button-down with much less grace, peels off his t-shirt and winds up getting tangled in the sleeves. It's worth it for Derek's laugh, though Stiles is disappointed that Derek's pants are off by the time Stiles tosses his shirt over his shoulder, breathless and grinning. 

Cautious now, Stiles grabs onto the bed and toes out of his shoes, his gaze solidly on Derek as he skins out of his boxer briefs. He's hard already, the head of his dick dark and shiny. He gives himself a few casual pumps, causing Stiles to stumble out of his jeans and faceplant on the bed. 

"I've seen it before," he grumbles, shoving of his pants and boxers. "It's nothing special."

Derek climbs up onto the bed and leans in to lick to the tip of Stiles' nose, to give him an upside-down kiss. "That's not what you said last time."

"It doesn't count if I've just had your dick in my mouth," he says with a glare. Once he's naked, Stiles squirms around until he's completely on the bed, pressed against Derek. They're laying the wrong way, with the pillows at their feet, but he's skin-to-skin with Derek and could not care about anything else at this particular moment. "Now get down here and kiss me." 

Stiles had no idea the simple act of kissing could be so fun. Could be such a turn on, even. But there's something to be said for beard burn. For slick tongues and warm mouths. For big, searching hands and legs tangled together. He thinks he could spend hours kissing Derek, but after a series of long, drugging kisses, of Derek's hand skimming up and down the back of Stiles' thigh without ever touching his ass, Stiles feels lit up from the inside, his skin prickling under the slightest gust of air, and he _wants_.

He's so focused on the scratch of stubble and the way their bodies fit together, it isn't until he throws his head back to suck down air that he notices the subtle rocking of Derek's hips. It's making a sticky mess all over Stiles' thigh and hip and something in his gut twists, tight and hot.

"I think I need you in me," Stiles gasps, eyes wide but unseeing. 

Derek's rhythm breaks down, until he stills, hovering over Stiles with his weight braced on his forearms. "You want that?" Derek, looking so young, so _surprised_. 

Stiles smiles, soft and fond, and brushes his thumb over Derek's eyebrows. "I really fucking do."

Derek ducks in for a kiss, thorough and devastating, hands pinning Stiles wrists to the bed. "Stay there," he murmurs, lips catching on Stiles', as he reaches back into the nightstand. Stiles closes his eyes while he listens to Derek rummage around inside, trying to keep his breathing even. He isn't nervous about getting fucked; there isn't any reason they haven't done it up 'til now, not on his end anyway, but there's still this feeling in his chest. Like his ribs are too small for his lungs, his heart. He wants to poke a pin in himself, to see if it'll burst, but it feels good, too. Warm and syrupy. It's strange and exciting and overwhelming, and the only thing Stiles can do to get through it is cling to the comforter and count his breaths.

After a minute, Derek's weight settles across Stiles' hips, and Stiles can feel his gaze like a physical touch. He squints open one eye to see Derek with a bottle of lube in his hand and a worried look on his face. 

"What's up, big guy?" Stiles says, the words sounding more casual than he feels.

Derek sighs and drags his knuckles along Stiles' happy trail, making it a struggle for Stiles to pay attention to anything other than his dick. "I uh, I don't have any condoms."

"Oh." Stiles wallows, eyes caught on a drop of sweat meandering down Derek's chest.

"It's just." Derek takes a breath, head tipping down so Stiles can't see his eyes. "I haven't been, uh. I haven't slept with anybody since…"

Stiles watches the bob of Derek's Adam's apple, waiting for him to finish. It takes him a minute to understand why Derek doesn't, and that bubble in his chest gets bigger. Warmer. Stiles stills Derek's hand, folding their fingers together. "Not since?" he asks, because he has to. Because the implication is a lot, even if it hasn't been all that long since Derek left Beacon Hills. 

Derek glances up, looking boyish with his bangs fallen in his eyes. "I wasn't interested in anybody."

Stiles nods. "Makes sense."

"I could still finger you, though. If you want that?" 

"Yeah, you could," Stiles says, brain working out logistics like it always does. "Or."

"Or?"

Stiles takes a deep breath and looks Derek in the eye. "You can't get sick, right? Werewolfy immunity and all that?"

"Yes, that's right," Derek says, hesitant. 

"And you already know that I've never been with anybody."

"Stiles," Derek says, low and earnest. "Are you sure?"

Stiles takes Derek's hand and lays Derek's palm again his chest. "Listen to my heart. What do you think?"

Derek breathes, thumb resting against a nipple while Stiles' heart thrums along, strong and steady. "I think your father would kill me."

"Way to ruin the mood, dude." He moves to throw Derek off of him, but Derek pinches his nipple, grinning. "Then again, maybe not," he gasps, squirming into the pain, enjoying it a little too much. "Dick. In me. _Now_." 

Derek lets him go long enough for Stiles to turn over, to get himself up on his knees with his forehead pressed to the mattress. They've been in a dozen different positions for this part, but Stiles has a feeling he won't be able to handle Derek's face _and_ getting fucked for the first time. So he takes a breath and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore what he must look like: hips up, knees spread, thighs hot and quaking.

"There's no reason to be embarrassed," he mutters, over and over, into the warm, humid space of his arms, hoping Derek's too distracted to hear him.

"Definitely not," Derek agrees, pressing a kiss to the base of Stiles' spine. Stiles would blush, but his blood is busy elsewhere.

They've done this enough that Derek knows Stiles prefers the lube cool to start, to help ground him in his body. So he's not expecting a flicker of warmth at first, a tiny burst of air and the rasp of hair against his hole. He yelps and arches, pulling away on instinct, one hand flailing behind him, searching for any part of Derek to grab onto. All he finds is air, and he whines, "You gotta warn a guy!" into the comforter. 

Derek, the dick, chuckles low and licks again. Slower, longer, from Stiles' balls all the way up to the base of his spine. It's both deeply confusing and also the hottest thing that's ever happened to Stiles. His whole body feels like it wants to turn inside-out, in a good way. 

"Do you want me to stop?" Derek asks, words muffled into Stiles' ass cheek. 

"I have no idea!" Stiles wails. His eyes are squeezed shut, hands fists against the mattress. "This is not the time or position for kink negotiation!" Derek's laugh is full-bodied enough for the bed to sway; Stiles is absurdly proud of himself.

"We'll put a pin in that for later, then," Derek says, once he's calm. A second later, a finger is circling Stiles' hole, cool and slick. It's familiar enough to chase away most of Stiles' embarrassment. And though they've done this before, it's never ended with the Full Monty, so to speak, so he takes his time with Stiles, spending a good while thrusting three fingers into him. 

Long enough that Stiles cracks and begs, "You gotta stop big guy, or I'm gonna come."

"Yeah, okay," Derek says, sounding dazed, a feeling Stiles is intimately acquainted with. "You comfortable?" he asks, his hands firm on Stiles' hips, tugging him up and back.

"Never better," Stiles pants, ignoring the swoop in his gut, the insistent throb of his dick.

Derek huffs a laugh as one hand leaves Stiles' waist, probably to wrap around Derek's dick. Stiles can see it in his head, shaky fingers working the foreskin back and forth, lubing himself up. After a long moment filled with the sound of their breathing, Stiles feels something slick and blunt working its way inside him, slow and steady. 

It's like nothing he could've imagined, even knowing what Derek's fingers feel like inside him. This is a whole other sensation seeming to fill up every part of him. Stiles has to squeeze his eyes shut while Derek eases his way inside, hips hitching in tiny, controlled thrusts. 

"Okay?" Derek slurs out once he's inside, pressed skin to skin from groin to chest. As heavy as he is, Stiles is grateful for the weight pinning him to the bed, reminding him of where he is and who he's with. Makes the initial stretch and sting worth it. 

"Gimmie another second?" Stiles asks, hands fisted in the sheets.

He feels Derek nod, and then his mouth is on Stiles' nape, warm and wet, sucking a bruise into the skin. Two more bruises and a bite later, Stiles wiggles his hips, drawing a strangled sound from Derek. He moves though, a slow draw out, a careful push in. Stiles appreciates his caution, but he's not made out of glass; the next time Derek thrusts forward, Stiles nudges backward, delighting in Derek's surprised grunt. Hint taken, Derek lets off the brakes a little, enough for Stiles' flagging dick to take an interest again.

From there, things fall into a rhythm, more or less. Turns out, Stiles' lack of coordination also extends to sex, making him feel clumsy when he can't quite seem to sync up with Derek. It's enough to make Stiles' face burn, face pressed to the pillow to muffle his whining grunts. After a while, Derek skims a palm along Stiles' spine, raising goosebumps in its wake, and takes hold of Stiles' hips again, lifting them an inch to improve his leverage. From this angle, he can control things better, letting Stiles relax a little and enjoy the ride. So to speak. 

Not too long after that, Derek's hand moves again, pressing down in a way that Stiles has to arch his back and tilt his hips. A second later, sparks flare behind his eyes, white-hot and blinding. He cries out, familiar with this feeling, but not the intensity. Derek's answering chuckle is low and dark and pleased. Stiles shivers and angles into it again, needy and wanting.

"I got you," Derek pants out, stroking his palm along Stiles' side and down his flank. "I'll get you there." He sounds like he's breathing heavy, his hands starting to slip on Stiles' sweaty skin. He thrusts in a few more times, and then he's blanketing Stiles' again, close enough for him to hook his chin over Stiles' shoulder. His rhythm turns into this circular grinding of his hips that's only made worse by the arm he has wrapped around Stiles' torso, tugging him back. 

"I want to come," Stiles rasps, feeling like he's being split apart, even as something winds tighter and tighter in his gut. He wants to get a hand on himself, but that'll throw off their balance, and Derek doesn't seem at all inclined to help out. Asshole.

A breath gusts across Stiles' ear. Then, "Come, Stiles. You can, I want you to." 

Stiles tips his head back, cheek rubbing against Derek's beard, and sobs. A particularly devastating grind nails him right in the prostate, making him forget all about balance. He flails one hand behind him, searching for something to hold on to. It lands in Derek's hair and he tugs, drawing a growl from deep in Derek's chest. A second later, Stiles gasps and comes, arching into Derek's body, shaky and panting. 

Derek stills as Stiles' works through it, chanting a quiet, "yeah, yeah, yeah," into Stiles' ear all while Stiles makes a mess of himself and the bed. He tries to collapse after, sweaty and wrung out, but Derek keeps his hold, preventing Stiles from belly flopping into the wet spot.

"Thanks," Stiles slurs, allowing Derek to ease Stiles' hand from his hair, to pull out and roll Stiles over into a dry spot. Once Derek has Stiles where he wants him, Derek settles himself between Stiles' spread legs, his dick a hot, sticky line against Stiles' spent cock. 

"Doin' okay?" Derek asks, mouthing at random drops of come on Stiles' body.

Stiles hums, petting Derek's hair and down the back of his neck. "Never better," he says, arching into Derek's hot mouth. "You didn't get yours, though." 

"I'll just jerk off on you. If that's okay."

"You have to keep going," Stiles pouts. "What the point in barebacking if you don't come in me?"

"Oh my god," Derek groans, biting at Stiles' happy trail. "How is your brain still functional?"

"I dunno," Stiles says with a shrug. "Guess we'll have to try harder next time."

Derek stills, forehead pressed to Stiles' chest. "You _have_ to stop saying things like that."

Stiles grins up at the ceiling, hands tugging at Derek's wrecked hair. "I really don't."

Derek surges up, catching Stiles' mouth in a bruising kiss while his hands hook behind Stiles' thighs and lift. Stiles, always the genius, even after a mind-bending orgasm, takes the hint and locks his ankles together behind Derek's butt and waits.

It doesn't take long for Derek to pull away, to line himself up and push inside. Stiles sighs into it, loose and relaxed. At least until Derek nails his prostrate.

"Maybe ease up on that, eh?" Stiles whimpers, adjusting his hips. 

Derek grins down at him, sharp and wicked. "Since you asked so nicely."

"Oh fuck," Stiles whispers, reaching out for the footboard to brace himself. 

"That's the idea." He dips in for one more biting kiss and then his hips are moving, angled down enough for Stiles to relax a little. The force of his thrusts have the bed creaking though, and Stiles has to push against the footboard to keep from banging his head too much. Even with all that, it's kind of a lot, Stiles is more or less boneless and twitchy, Derek moving above him, sweat and shaking. This is what Stiles had hoped to avoid by getting on his knees. Instead, he has nothing to do other than focus on Derek's face, tender and intent. Derek's eyes may be unfocused, his thoughts narrowed down to what will get him to orgasm the fastest, but Stiles feels flayed open. An exposed nerve with nowhere to hide.

Luckily, it doesn't take to long for Derek's rhythm to falter, for his words to fade into breathless grunts. "Oh fuck," he whispers, using one hand to lift up Stiles' hips. The prickle of claws makes Stiles shiver, and he reaches out for Derek's hair, guiding him down until Derek's face is pressed to Stiles' neck. 

Derek's sob is loud, right next to Stiles' ear, but it's worth it to have his hands on Derek, when the orgasm washes over him. Stiles feels every jerky thrust, every minute tremble. And then he's warm and sticky inside, Derek grinding into him again and again until he lets out a long groan and stops, forehead pressed to Stiles' temple.

"You feel incredible," Derek murmurs. 

Stiles pets a hand through his hair. "You don't feel so bad yourself," he says, wondering how long he can lay like this before he loses feeling in his legs. It only takes to a count of ten for Derek to pull away by degrees, to kiss Stiles' cheek and nose, hands skimming along his ribs and down his thighs. It's kinda weird for Stiles to let Derek move him where he wants him, but there's not much he can do about it. His bones are still vaguely jelly-like, and Derek doesn't help by stretching out on his side, one arm curled under his head, the other hand tucked between Stiles' legs, one fingertip nudging at Stiles' hole, setting off tiny aftershocks.

"I know I'm seventeen," Stiles huffs, squirming, "but I think you're being a little ambitious with my refractory period." His hips angle toward Derek anyway, making room for his finger to slide inside. 

"I know," Derek murmurs, his eyes dark in the shadows. "I'm just making sure you're okay."

"Better not be using your wolfy powers," he slurs, back arching into two of Derek's fingers. "I earned these aches fair and square. I want to — _goddamn it_ , Derek! — feel them tomorrow." A a series of well-angled strokes leave Stiles breathless and panting, one hand fisting into Derek's hair for something to hold on to. "You gotta stop," he whines, eyes turning watery. "Please, I can't."

Derek shushes him, presses his lips to Stiles' shoulder and pulls out slow. Stiles hates the shock of emptiness, but also needs his body to stop twitching. It's the worst kind of catch-22. He rolls into Derek instead, hiding his face against Derek's chest, one of his legs slung over Derek's.

"I should clean us up," Derek says around a yawn, right into Stiles' ear.

Stiles groans and pinches Derek's nipple, his eyes drifting shut. "Afterglow, big guy. It's a thing. I want it."

One big hand skims down the length of Stiles' spine, coming to rest on his ass. "Yeah," Derek says, quiet. "Okay."

: : :

Stiles wakes up feeling like he weighs an extra two hundred pounds. It takes him a few minutes to figure out it's because Derek is sprawled across Stiles' chest, dark hair tickling Stiles' chin. It should probably feel suffocating or stifling, but it's kind of nice, being this close to another body. The simple animal comfort of human connection. Stiles had no idea how much he'd missed it until he started up this thing with Derek and discovered how addicted he was to being touched or held. Not just by Derek but anybody in the garage; a hand ruffling his hair, squeezing his bicep. A bro-hug that Stiles leaned into a little too long.

With one hand in Derek's hair, Stiles closes his eyes and lets his mind drift, thinking about the last time he felt like this, calm and safe and cared for. Watched over. He lands on a memory of his family, his mom still alive and vibrant as ever, the three of them tucked close on the sofa while a thunderstorm raged outside. It was the flickering lights that frightened Stiles the most, but his mom kept her arm looped around him, his dad around the both of them, a blanket tugged up to Stiles' chin. 

"I won't let anything bad happen to you," his dad rumbled into Stiles' ear. On his other side, Stiles' mom pushed back his hair and kissed his forehead, her skin still smelling like the brownies they'd baked that morning. Stiles drags in a ragged breath, smelling that same vanilla-chocolate blend, as if she's here in the room with him right now.

The noise Stiles makes rouses Derek enough for him to lift his head, his eyes blurry and hooded, his hair a disaster. He looks so confused, Stiles sobs out a laugh and rolls onto his side, facing away from Derek to hide the sting of tears. 

"What's going on?" Derek slurs, fitting himself to the curve of Stiles' back. Derek's body is a warm cradle, his big hand spread over Stiles' chest. Stiles covers it with his own and wills his voice steady.

"Not a thing, big guy. Everything's fine."

"Well that's a lie," Derek rumbles, pressing his nose to Stiles' pulse.

Stiles pulls Derek's hand away from his chest. "Quit eaves dropping."

Derek snorts. "I didn't need your heart to tell me that."

"Ugh," Stiles says with feeling.

The both of them fall silent, Stiles busy taking in the rest of the room while Derek's beard scrapes against his nape. He's surprised to see the glow of sunlight creeping through the loft balcony, and tips his head back a little to see the thick dark curtains drawn across all of the windows in the room. "Didn't stick around for much afterglow, huh?"

Derek muffles a sigh against Stiles' shoulder. "You were dead to the world and I didn't want to wake up a sticky mess. Also." He uses their joined hands to gesture to the room at large. "Sunlight."

"Are you part vampire, now?"

"You think I could talk you into blood play?" He drags his fangs along the length of Stiles' neck, making him shiver.

"We'll see," Stiles says, feeling magnanimous. 

Silence falls again, a little easier this time now that a few jokes have been cracked. But Stiles' brain keeps wanting to drift back to that memory. Worse, it keeps dragging up every time his parents fought for him, every hug his dad forced him through. Every discussion about trust and love and family. Of facing the fight _together_ , no matter how impossible it may seem.

It's a lesson that doesn't ever seem to stick with Stiles, not until he's done something drastic. Or lied to his dad for months. Often times, both.

"Derek?" Stiles asks, voice small. 

Derek hums a reply, sounding sleepy.

"I think I have to go home." For all that they weren't moving in the first place, except for Stiles' restless feet, Derek stills even further. Stiles wouldn't be surprised if Derek's heart stopped beating. 

"You're—" Derek's swallow clicks in his throat. "You're okay, right?"

"For given value of the word? Sure, I guess."

Derek's fingers tighten around Stiles', his arms too, and he presses his mouth to Stiles' skin, saying, "If you didn't want it…" He drifts off, and Stiles frowns, confused.

"What are you talking ab— Oh my god, no Derek." Stiles squirms around, until he can see Derek, and tilts his face up. "I _definitely_ wanted that. And liked it!" He waits until Derek meets his eyes and explains. "Not home as in Kris' place. Home as in Beacon Hills."

"Oh." Derek feels present again, lungs working, heart beating. He kisses Stiles high on the cheek and sort of melts across his chest, much like he was when Stiles woke up. Only now, his breath is hot against Stiles' neck and Stiles is feeling a little bit more suffocated. He kisses a quick apology along Derek's shoulder and worms out from under Derek, until he's sitting up, forehead pressed to his bent knees. 

A small part of Stiles wants to take back the words, after making Derek panic, but the larger part of him feels something that might be relief. Like he can breathe deep, for the first time since he ran. A weight lifted off his shoulders. Long fingers wrap around his ankle and he turns his head to look down at Derek's dark, worried eyes.

"Are you okay?"

Stiles blows out a breath and squeezes his knees. "I think so?" He takes stock of himself, from head to toe and back again, and nods. "I just." He swallows around a lump in his throat. "I really miss my dad."

"I could've told you that," Derek says, rolling his eyes. "I think _I_ miss your dad." 

Stiles watches him scoot up the bed and lets him press their shoulders together. "He's a very miss-able guy."

"Especially if you're seventeen and his son."

Stiles scoffs, but Derek's not wrong. And he says it gently, with a hint of his own loss woven through it. "You don't think I'm crazy? Wanting to go back?"

"Oh, you're definitely crazy," Derek says, taking Stiles' hand. "But not because of that."

Stiles huffs a laugh. "A boy wanting the safety of his dad's arms," he muses, mind already working through all the horrible ways this could end. "What's more sane than that?" 

"Not much." 

Stiles sighs and slots his fingers between Derek's giving them a squeeze. "Now that that's decided, all I need is my Jeep." He studies Derek from the corner of his eye, concerned about the red tinge to Derek's cheeks, the subtle hunch of his shoulders. Derek clears his throat a few times, looking almost sheepish.

"That's uh. That's kind of why I asked you here last night," he says, not meeting Stiles' eyes. 

"I don't get it?" Stiles says. And then— "Oh my god. You couldn't save Roscoe, could you?"

"Stiles—"

"You thought you'd sex me up—"

"—that's not—"

"—to soften the blow—"

"Stiles, calm do—"

"— of Roscoe's death!"

"Roscoe is fine!" Derek shouts, hands on Stiles' arms to give him a shake. "The Jeep is fine," he repeats, quieter. "I got in all the parts, it's fixed."

Stiles stills. "Then why am I here?!?"

Derek removes his hands in one slow slide, letting his arms circle around his bent knees. "Because I wanted to be a little selfish, for once."

Stiles shakes his head, getting more confused by the second. "I have no idea what that means."

With a rough, heavy sigh, Derek slips out of bed, giving Stiles five glorious seconds of his naked ass while he bends over to pick up his jeans. "I figured you'd leave, the second the Jeep was ready," he explains, moving around the room to push open the curtains. Stiles squints at his back, the pieces starting to slot together. "I just wanted another couple of nights with you before that happened."

Stiles' traitorous heart does backflips in his chest and he has to press a hand over his mouth to prevent himself from saying anything too mean or sappy. He waits a few breaths, giving his brain time to cycle through it all, then eases out of bed and tugs on his boxer briefs. "That is really—"

"Selfish, I know." Derek's shoulders slump and he crosses his arms over his chest, still facing away from Stiles.

"I was gonna say sweet," Stiles says, one hand sneaking its way around Derek's torso. When Derek doesn't push him away, Stiles brings up the other one, hugging Derek from behind. After all the time they've spent on the bike, Stiles knows exactly how their bodies fit together like this, and it feels just as good standing up as it does straddling the bike. "You're allowed to be selfish, y'know," he murmurs into Derek's ear, nipping at the lobe. "Especially if it involves your dick in my ass."

Derek shakes once, twice, trying to hold in the laugh, but Stiles' fingers are right over his ribs, and he uses it to his advantage, until Derek has no choice but to break. After a healthy laugh, he turns around in Stiles' arms and wraps his own around Stiles' neck, pulling him in for a proper hug. It's a little smothering, but Stiles doesn't care. He'd stay here forever if he could, which is probably not something he should be thinking about at seventeen. 

After a few minutes, Derek sucks in a breath and eases Stiles back enough for Derek to look him in the eye. His hands are warm on Stiles' face, his eyes mossy green in the dim light. Stiles sweeps a thumb over Derek's temple and is rewarded with soft eye crinkles and the hint of bunny teeth. Stiles really loves those bunny teeth.

"When do you want to leave?" Derek asks, soft and hesitant. 

Stiles takes a deep breath and thinks about it for a minute. "I should probably leave as soon as I can," he says, dread starting to sour in his gut. "That way I won't have time to talk myself out of it."

Derek nods. "Makes sense." He looks around the room, his thumbs brushing across Stiles' cheeks. "I can be ready in an hour or so?"

"I mean, we could at least have breakfast together first," Stiles says, trying not to sound disappointed. "I hear that's a thing people do after they spend the night together?"

"Oh, we can," Derek says. He leans in to brush a kiss against Stiles' mouth, then lets him go, moving around the room, gathering up his dirty clothes. "But I figured we could get it on our way out of town. There's a diner I know that we haven't been to yet, makes great French toast." He's moving faster now, emerging from his closet with a bag and tossing it on the bed. Pulling things from his dresser drawer and packing them inside. 

Stiles approaches him slowly, stilling Derek with a hand on his wrist. "You— what are— You're not going with me?"

Derek gives Stiles' fingers a squeeze and continues with his packing. "Why not? You need the support. Both with your dad and probably to deal with the Dread Doctors." He moves around the room as he continues, "I may not be an alpha anymore, but I can still fight."

"But you left!" Stiles says, tugging at his hair. "You got out! You're free!"

Derek stops, several pairs of socks in his hand, and gives Stiles a pitying look. "How free would I be knowing I let you walk back into that all by yourself? That I could've done something to help Scott's pack?" He sets down his socks and approaches Stiles, telegraphing his every move. Stiles' eyes slide shut when warm hands frame his face. A second later, he's being kissed with such tenderness, such ferocity, Stiles swears he can hear his heart crack. He clings to Derek's wrists to keep from crumbling.

"You're allowed to be selfish too, y'know," Derek whispers, low, pressing their foreheads together. 

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, fighting down the light, weightless feeling growing in his chest. "Yeah, okay," Stiles sighs. "Let's go home."


End file.
